Page 86 of Faking the Goal

"Busy ignoring you," Luke says.

Elijah picks up a towel from the bench and whips it at Luke, who catches it one-handed without breaking stride. "Fuck off."

The laughter picks up again, rolling across the ice and bouncing off the rafters. Taylor's phone buzzes one more time and she finally picks it up, looks at the screen, and—without changing expression—slides it into her pocket.

I watch her pack her camera into its bag, zipping it closed with quick, efficient movements. The guys are already heading for the locker room, their voices fading as they push through the double doors.

Taylor stands and slings the bag over her shoulder. "Thanks for this," she says. "The photos are going to be great."

"Anytime," I say.

"Seven tomorrow morning?"

I nod. "I'll be there."

We'd originally scheduled the final sit-down interview for noon, but Coach added an extra film session and team meeting tomorrow to prepare for Friday's game. We're playing one of the best teams in D1, and apparently their goalie has been having one hell of a season too, sitting just behind me in the rankings. Coach wants us studying their plays, tendencies, special teams—pretty much anything that might give us an edge before they step onto our ice. Between that and Taylor's schedule, seven in the morning was the only other opening we could find this week.

Next week isn't an option either. Finals start, and between studying, exams, and both of us trying to catch up on everything we've neglected while working on this feature, finding an hour when neither of us is buried in academic shit would probably be impossible.

Seven in the morning it is.

"Perfect." Taylor smiles and starts backing toward the exit. "Try not to oversleep, Sunshine."

I give her a flat look. "I'm always awake before you."

She laughs. "Whatever you say."

With one last wave, she turns and heads out of the rink, her camera bag bouncing lightly against her hip as she disappears through the doors.

*****

TAYLOR

"T, what do you say we hit a party tonight and go man-hunting?"

Claire hooks her arm through mine as we spill out of our sociology class with everyone else. Judging by the way she's practically bouncing beside me in her tiny plaid skirt and knee-high boots, she's already way too excited about this man-hunting plan of hers.

Claire and I have this class together, and we hang out more than I do with most people. We go to parties together. Clubs. Bars when we can get away with it. She's one of the girls I call when I don't feel like showing up somewhere alone.

But she's not my friend.

Not really.

That sounds bitchy, I know, but it's the truth.

Claire isn't cruel, and I don't dislike her. It's just... there's a difference between girls you drink with and girls who actually know you. Real friends are the people who text you just because they want to talk to you, not because they need a ride to Sigma Chi or want to know what you're wearing to a party. They ask how you're doing and actually wait for the answer. They come over to sit on your bed and watch trash TV with you, steal your fries, borrow your sweaters, tell you when you're being stupid, and stay anyway. They know the ugly parts too—the anxious parts, the messy parts, the stuff you don't show off in public—and they don't flinch.

I don't have that.

What I have are girls who like going out with me because they know I pull attention the second I walk into a room. When I'm around, guys flock. Drinks appear. Invitations multiply. Suddenly everyone in the group is having a better night. I've known for a long time that half the reason some of them keep me around is because I'm useful in a crop top and red lipstick.

And honestly? It's never really bothered me that much.

At least it's company.

At least for a few hours, I don't have to feel like I'm the only person on the planet.

"I dunno, Claire." I shift my bag higher on my shoulder as we make our way down the crowded hallway. "I'm kind of busy."