Page 29 of Faking the Goal

"It's not going to be a problem, is it, T?" Poly asks, and the saccharine nickname lands like a paper cut—small but irritating.

I imagine, very briefly, the satisfying crunch of my fist connecting with that perfectly practiced smile. Not hard enough to break anything, just enough to rearrange her expression into something more honest. Instead, I give her my own version of the smile—extra sugar, heavy on the mockery, the kind that says I see your game and I'm playing one of my own.

"Please. The only problem will be editing it down from the tome of brilliant insights he's going to give me." I snap my notebook shut with more force than necessary. "When's the deadline?"

"First draft is due Friday, the week before winter break. That gives you," Poly consults her planner with performative diligence, "seven weeks."

Forty-nine days.

Forty-nine days to extract meaningful conversation from a human ice sculpture.

Great. Fantastic.

I'm already mentally drafting my resignation letter, which will be written in the form of a haiku and left on the department chair's desk.

The meeting dissolves into the usual post-assignment chaos—people comparing deadlines, the freshman asking if anyone wants to split a pizza, Marcus already on his phone looking up Kentaro's stats as if that will somehow help me crack the code of his personality. I pack my bag slowly, buying time for the room to clear because the last thing I need is an audience when my performative confidence finally cracks.

Once the room empties, I drop my forehead onto the table and groan.

Kentaro fucking Azuma.

Of all the athletes on campus, of all the possible profiles Poly could've dumped on me, it had to be him. The guy who communicates primarily in grunts and irritated stares. The guy who once gave a post-game interview that consisted entirely of We played well. The defense was solid. I'm focused on the next game.

Three sentences.

Twelve words.

I counted.

I flip open my notebook to a fresh page and write KENTARO AZUMA: HOW TO NOT GET MURDERED BY THE HOCKEY TEAM'S GOALIE (A SURVIVAL GUIDE) across the top, stare at it for two seconds, then scribble a line through the whole thing.

The ugly truth is that Kentaro doesn't just hate interviews.

He doesn't fucking like me.

I've spent the last few weeks discovering that distinction firsthand. There was the time I tried to interview him after a shutout and he walked right past me. The time I asked about his pregame routine and he stared at me like I'd requested his banking information. Every time I point my camera at him, he looks personally betrayed by the invention of photography.

And that was all before Friday night.

I slowly sink lower in my chair.

Fuck.

Our last conversation ended with him questioning whether I had any self-respect, me calling him out for being a hypocritical, slut-shaming asshole, and both of us getting close enough to each other's faces that I'm pretty sure anyone walking past would've had trouble deciding whether we were about to throw punches or—

Nope.

Not finishing that thought.

The point is, I told him exactly where he could shove his opinion of my sex life and walked away wanting nothing to do with him ever again.

And now I have to convince that same man to sit down with me voluntarily and discuss his childhood, his family, his ambitions, his interests, and presumably whatever other deeply personal shit Poly expects me to pry out of him.

I stare at his name on the page.

The odds are not in my fucking favor.

Actually, the odds took one look at this assignment, packed their bags, and left the country.