Page 378 of Faking the Goal

CHAPTER 48

TAYLOR

Three weeks later...

It's the Frozen Four Championship game, and every puck that comes anywhere near the crease gets swallowed by my boyfriend.

Not metaphorically.

Although, given where my brain has been wandering for the past ten minutes while ogling him, maybe I should stop using words like swallowed.

We're twenty minutes in, the Warriors are already up four–nothing, and that big fat zero glaring from the other team's side of the scoreboard is entirely courtesy of Kentaro Azuma and his apparent refusal to let a single fucking puck get past him.

I tighten my grip on my camera and snap another shot just as Kentaro shifts into position, tracking the puck through traffic with that terrifying focus of his. Technically, I'm here as a photojournalist, which means I'm supposed to be covering the entire game. You know, getting good action shots of both teams, the crowd, the bench, celebrations—all those important little things that will actually make this look like legitimate sports coverage instead of a very expensive photographic shrine dedicated to Kentaro Azuma.

And yet, if someone checks my memory card right now, they're going to find approximately eight thousand pictures of Ridgewater's goalie looking offensively hot from slightly different angles.

Oops.

My professionalism appears to have taken the night off.

Sorry, not sorry.

Kentaro snags another shot out of the air with his glove like the puck personally offended him, freezing it against his chest before the opposing forward can even think about poking at the rebound. The whistle blows. The arena erupts. He straightens in front of the net, shoulders squared beneath all that bulky goalie gear, and gives the player crowding his crease the same murderous scowl that used to make me want to throw something at his head.

Now?

Now that scowl is my favorite thing in the world.

Apparently, somewhere between fake dating this grumpy asshole and falling hopelessly in love with him, my body decided his resting murder face is foreplay.

Because one glare from Kentaro Azuma now activates every hormone in my body like someone just slammed their hand down on a giant red HORNY button.

Fantastic.

Love that for me.

Cody and Zach are battling for the puck along the boards while one of the opposing forwards tries to dig it loose between their skates. Cody manages to knock it free, but it gets picked off before Ridgewater can clear the zone, and suddenly the puck is moving the wrong fucking direction.

Another shot comes screaming toward our net.

Some forward from the other team with a jawline that could cut glass winds up and fires, and the puck becomes a black blur cutting through the air. I hold my breath. The crowd holds its breath.

Kentaro moves.

It's not even a save, really. It's a statement. His glove flashes out, snatching the puck mid-flight with the casual precision of someone swatting a fly. The puck disappears into his mitt with a satisfying thwack, and he doesn't even react. He just holds it long enough for the whistle, resets himself in the crease, and fixes the shooter with a glare that practically asks if that was seriously the best he could do.

The arena explodes.

I explode.

Miho, standing beside me with a foam finger that says AZUMA'S ARMY in glitter letters, grabs my arm and shrieks directly into my ear.

"Did you see that? Did you fucking see that?"

"I saw it," I say, and my voice comes out slightly strangled because what I'm really thinking is: I saw those thighs working beneath all those pads. I saw the sweat dampening the hair at the back of his neck before disappearing beneath his jersey. I saw that huge catching glove close around the puck like it was nothing.

And because my brain is apparently committed to disgracing me at the most important hockey game of his life, all I can think about now are the long fingers hidden inside those gloves and exactly what they're capable of when they're not busy ruining another team's national championship dreams.