Page 379 of Faking the Goal

I'm thinking about those fingers on me, and it's becoming a problem.

Because this is the Frozen Four. The national fucking championship. I'm standing in the lower bowl near the players' bench with my press credential hanging around my neck, my camera in my hands, and nearly twenty thousand witnesses surrounding me, and all I can think about is how badly I want to climb over the glass, somehow cross the ice in my extremely impractical boots, and mount my boyfriend like he's a particularly attractive piece of gym equipment.

"Taylor." Miho pokes me in the ribs. "You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you stare at my brother like you're mentally undressing him in front of God and everybody."

"I am not mentally undressing him," I say, which is a lie so blatant even the drunk guy three rows down could call me on it. "I'm appreciating his athletic prowess."

"His athletic prowess," Miho repeats, making air quotes. "Right. Is that what we're calling my brother's ass now?"

I lower my camera and stare at her. "First of all, your brother has an objectively spectacular ass. I'm a journalist. I have an ethical obligation to report the facts."

Miho makes a gagging sound. "Please never report that fact to me again."

I try to keep a straight face. I really do, but one look at the genuine horror on hers and I lose it. A laugh bursts out of me, and Miho lasts maybe another second before she cracks too, shoving my shoulder while we both dissolve into helpless giggles.

Another roar from the crowd jerks our attention back to the ice just as a shot rockets toward Kentaro. He drops into a butterfly and kicks it away with his pad, then immediately pushes back to his feet, eyes razor-focused as he tracks the rebound.

That fucking scowl returns.

And there goes my brain again.

A warm pulse curls low in my stomach.

Oh, great.

Now I'm thinking about tonight.

Specifically, all the creative ways Kentaro is going to celebrate after the Warriors win the Frozen Four. Tonight, I am certain, I'm going to end up folded into some geometrically impossible shape like a horny little origami crane that definitely did not come with assembly instructions.

Or maybe a swan.

Something elegant.

Something that says she once had functioning hip joints, but then she fell in love with a goalie.

Another save.

The crowd explodes around me, and I clap along with everyone else, screaming his name while my mind supplies several extremely inappropriate reasons why I plan on screaming it again later.

Professional.

So very professional, Taylor.

As the players reset, Kentaro looks toward me one more time.

And smiles.

Not the smug one.

The real one.

Small, private, and so completely mine.

My heart does that stupid little flip it always does when he looks at me like that, and somehow all the heat twisting through me gets tangled up with something softer, something embarrassingly warm and gooey that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that his thighs could probably crack walnuts.