Page 192 of Faking the Goal

But my heart doesn't seem particularly interested in that distinction, because now it's beating so hard against my chest that I'm fairly certain the four girls don't need to hear our fake love story anymore. They can probably hear the evidence thumping inside my chest.

Kentaro gives me a small, knowing smile, like he's pleased with himself for following my lead so perfectly, and something about that smile—combined with his arm around my waist, the adrenaline still humming through me from the game, and the fact that he just stood here telling four complete strangers that he'd chase me as long as it took—short-circuits whatever common sense I have left.

Before I can think better of it, I curl my fingers around the back of his neck, pull him down, and kiss him.

We've talked about kissing. Of course we have. If we're supposed to convince everyone we're dating, kissing in public was bound to happen eventually. We discussed it like two painfully rational adults negotiating the terms of a business agreement, and I thought knowing it might happen would somehow prepare me for the reality.

It does not.

Because I wasn't planning to kiss him tonight. I definitely wasn't planning to do it in the middle of a crowded arena concourse with hockey fans still streaming toward the exits and half his teammates somewhere nearby. It simply happens, as naturally as reaching for something I've wanted for far too long without realizing how badly I wanted it.

Then the full weight of what I've just done crashes into me.

Shit.

Maybe I overplayed it. Maybe this is too much for our little performance, especially without warning him first. My pulse kicks harder as I start to pull away, ready to laugh it off before the moment becomes painfully awkward, but Kentaro's arms tighten around my waist and stop me.

He pulls me firmly against him and kisses me back with enough certainty to erase any doubt that I crossed some invisible line between us.

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

Whatever I expected kissing Kentaro to feel like, it wasn't this.

My fingers tighten behind his neck as the kiss deepens, and suddenly I'm having a very difficult time remembering that there are people around us at all. The noise of the arena seems to blur beneath the pounding of my heart while his hand settles securely at the small of my back, keeping me close.

This isn't the awkward, carefully staged kiss I imagined we'd eventually have for the sake of our fake relationship. There's nothing hesitant about the way he kisses me back, and there's definitely nothing fake about the way my entire body seems to light up in response.

I've kissed plenty of men before. More than I could probably count without feeling slightly judged by my own memory, and some of those kisses were undeniably good.

This one ruins every single one of them.

Nothing has ever made everything around me disappear this easily. For however long his mouth is on mine, I forget about the girls watching us, the fans passing through the concourse, the camera still hanging from my shoulder, and the fact that the man I'm currently kissing is technically only pretending to be mine.

Eventually, the need to breathe forces us apart, although neither of us goes very far. My arms remain looped around his neck, his hands stay at my waist, and when I finally manage to look at him properly, there's a grin spreading across his face.

I feel one stretching across mine too.

His expression is so open, so genuinely happy, that something inside my chest squeezes painfully. My gaze drops to his lips, and I notice the faint red stain smeared across them.

"Oh." I let out a shaky laugh, still trying to remember how breathing works. "My lipstick got all over you."

I lift my hand to wipe it away, but Kentaro catches my wrist before my thumb reaches his mouth.

"Leave it on."

I blink at him. "What? Why?"

His grin deepens, transforming his normally serious face into something so dangerously sexy that I briefly forget we have an audience.

"I like your mark on me."

Well.

There goes my stomach.

It doesn't merely flutter. It detonates, releasing approximately ten thousand deranged butterflies that immediately begin throwing themselves against my ribs. I'm fairly certain that is the sexiest thing any man has ever said to me, which is deeply inconvenient considering this entire relationship is supposed to be fake.

The concourse around us is still crowded with people leaving the arena, and it doesn't take long for me to realize that quite a few of them have noticed us. Some are openly staring at the fact that Ridgewater's famously broody goalie just spent the last however-many-seconds making out with me, while others seem considerably more fascinated by the unfamiliar grin currently lighting up his face.