Page 103 of Faking the Goal

"And someone who hasn't slept with enough athletes to make her way through half the fucking rosters on campus."

Her palm cracks across my face.

"You fucking asshole."

My head whips to the side, the sting shooting from my cheek deep into my jaw. For a second all I can taste is whiskey and the inside of my own mouth where my teeth caught my cheek.

But the pain barely fucking registers.

Because when I turn back to her, the look on Taylor's face makes the slap feel like nothing.

Her eyes are glassy. Her bottom lip is trembling despite how hard she's pressing it against the other, fighting like hell to keep it still. She's still clutching the sheer fabric over herself with one hand, but her chin is raised again, her shoulders pulled straight through sheer fucking force, like she refuses to let me see just how deeply I managed to cut her.

But I can see it anyway.

The humiliation. The anger. The hurt.

And just like that, every bit of anger that's been eating me alive tonight drops out from under me.

What the fuck did I just say?

Shame crawls through me so violently my stomach turns.

"You know what? Fuck you, Azuma. At least I've never pretended to be better than I am."

"Taylor—"

"No." Her eyes flash, wet and furious. "You don't get to stand there and call me trash because I don't dress the way you think a woman should or because I've slept with people you think I shouldn't have."

Her voice cracks on the last few words, and she stops for a second, swallowing hard before she continues.

"I thought you were finally starting to see me as an actual fucking person instead of whatever cheap slut you decided I was the first day you met me." A shaky, bitter laugh slips out of her. "Guess I was stupid enough to give you too much credit."

That lands harder than her hand ever could.

"And just so we're clear"—she swipes angrily beneath one eye before the tear gathering there can fall—"I'd rather sleep with every fucking athlete on this campus than ever be with a man who thinks my clothes or how many people I've slept with decides whether I'm worth respecting."

Fuck.

I don't have a single goddamn thing to say to that.

Because there isn't one.

She's right.

Taylor holds my gaze, her lip still trembling even though she's trying so fucking hard not to let it.

"So congratulations, asshole." Her voice drops quieter, losing some of its fury, and somehow that's so much fucking worse. "You finally found a way to make me regret letting you get to know me."

Another tear slips free before she can wipe this one away.

Something heavy drops into my chest.

Not guilt. Guilt isn't fucking big enough for whatever this is.

It feels like someone lodged a goddamn boulder behind my ribs, crushing down on my lungs until I have to remind myself to breathe.

I've seen Taylor angry. I've seen her scared. I've seen her bruised and shaken and still somehow ready to run her mouth at me.