Page 372 of Faking the Goal

"And it's a good thing I was there."

Her forehead creases. "Kentaro—"

"No, Trouble." My voice softens. "The last time I left you with him because I thought you were safe, he almost killed you."

The memory still hits like a blade between my ribs. Taylor lying unconscious in that hospital bed. Her bruised face. Her broken ribs. All those hours I spent sitting beside her wishing I could go backward and make one different fucking decision.

"I've carried that with me every day since," I admit. "I know what happened wasn't my fault. I know that." My arms tighten around her anyway. "But I promised myself I would never let him hurt you like that again. So when I saw that gun turn toward you tonight, there wasn't a choice to make. There was just you."

I lean forward until my forehead rests against hers.

"And this time, I got to you."

"You're impossible," she says, but she's smiling now, a watery, crooked thing that makes my heart give one stupidly happy thump. Her hand moves from my neck to my face, cupping my jaw, her thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone the same way I traced hers. "Completely impossible."

"Yeah, well. You love me anyway."

"Unfortunately."

I kiss her. Slow, careful, because my arm hurts and she's shaking a little, and neither of us is in any shape for anything more than this: her mouth soft against mine, her fingers in my hair, the steady proof that we're both here, both breathing, both alive on the other side of something terrible.

When we break apart, she rests her forehead against mine. Her eyes are closed. I can feel her pulse where her wrist presses against my neck, fast but slowing, finding its rhythm again.

CHAPTER 47

KENTARO

The next few days, Taylor takes it upon herself to become my personal nurse even though I keep reminding her that I was grazed by a bullet, not mauled by a fucking bear. Apparently, that distinction means nothing to her. She checks my bandage, reminds me when I'm supposed to take the painkillers, and watches me like a hawk anytime I use my left arm too much.

According to her, she loves me and taking care of me is one of the ways she gets to show it, which effectively destroyed every argument I had prepared.

I mean, what am I supposed to say to that?

Please stop loving me so aggressively? Absolutely not.

Besides, Taylor is staying with me at the hockey house again while I recover, so as far as I'm concerned, I came out ridiculously ahead. My arm still hurts like a bitch whenever I move it wrong, but I get to fall asleep with Trouble curled against me every night and wake up with her beside me every morning.

If this is suffering, I will bravely endure.

Mom and Miho have already come by the house too, mostly because the words Kentaro got shot apparently traveled through my family without anyone bothering to include the much less alarming words and he's completely fine.

By the time Mom arrived, she looked about two seconds away from either having a nervous breakdown or personally finishing me off herself. She hugged me so hard she nearly reopened my stitches, cried, checked my arm approximately seventeen times, then scolded me for being reckless while simultaneously telling me she was proud of me for protecting Taylor.

I'm still not entirely sure how I was supposed to respond to being yelled at and praised in the same sentence, so I just stood there and accepted my fate. Miho, naturally, was far more helpful. She spent most of the visit telling Taylor embarrassing stories about me while occasionally reminding Mom that I had, in fact, survived.

The team doctor and trainers have been almost as annoying as the women in my life. They've already evaluated my arm, and everything looks good—no damage beyond the graze itself, full strength and movement, stitches healing exactly the way they're supposed to. Unfortunately, this has not convinced them that I should immediately be allowed back in the crease like a reasonable person. I'm limited to light skating for now, followed by controlled goalie drills as long as the wound keeps behaving itself.

No full practice. No throwing myself around the crease. No doing anything that could pull the stitches or reopen the wound. Basically, they've taken everything enjoyable about hockey and left me with cardio.

I hate it.

Taylor fucking loves it.

She actually stood behind the glass during practice yesterday looking unbearably smug while the trainer stopped me from joining a drill.

I pointed at her with my stick.

She blew me a kiss.