Page 36 of Faking the Goal

There it is again.

That fucking tone that tells me I've stepped somewhere I shouldn't have.

"That's not what I said."

"You didn't have to. Your face did all the work."

"You told me you're unavailable every evening."

"And somehow you decided that means I'm partying every evening."

"Considering—"

"Careful." Her eyebrows rise. "We've already had this conversation once, remember? It didn't go particularly well for you."

That shuts my mouth.

Because I do remember.

I've remembered it every fucking day.

Taylor looks at me for another second before some of the sarcasm drains from her expression. "Look, I don't care what you think I'm doing at night. I'm not asking you to rearrange your classes, skip practice, or blow off your study group. I know hockey and school come first for you. But this"—she waves her phone between us—"is my work too, Azuma. I have a deadline, and I can't do the profile without you."

The word work catches somewhere in my head, but before I can think much about it, she continues.

"I've spent an entire week trying to work around your schedule. I've emailed you. I've chased you across campus like you owe me child support. I've sat through practices taking approximately eight thousand photographs of you glaring at pucks, and I still don't have enough material to write more than Kentaro Azuma is very good at hockey and apparently allergic to cooperation."

I exhale through my nose and glance toward the locker room again. I'm going to be late if this keeps going, but for the first time all week, the reason we haven't accomplished anything is becoming annoyingly difficult to pin entirely on her.

She's right.

She has been trying.

I'm the one who hasn't opened the fucking email.

And I know exactly why.

Some petty part of me thought that if I gave her nothing long enough, she'd eventually give up.

Apparently that part of me still hasn't figured out who the fuck it's dealing with.

"Fine," I say. "I'll read it tonight."

Her suspicion is immediate. "Actually read it?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"How fucking long is this thing?"

"Twenty-six preliminary questions."

I stare at her. "Twenty-six?"

"Relax. They're questions, not chapters. I'm trying to write an actual profile about you, not the back of a hockey card."

I shake my head, already regretting this. "I'll read all twenty-six."