Page 45 of Faking the Goal

It's a few minutes before twelve when I step into the arena, my jacket wrapped tightly around me while my camera bag hangs from one shoulder and my tote from the other. The place is nearly silent except for the familiar scrape of steel against ice, which immediately draws my attention toward the rink.

There's only one person out there.

Kentaro is wearing a Ridgewater hockey hoodie and a red baseball cap turned backward, gliding across the ice with a puck at the end of his stick.

He hasn't noticed me yet, or maybe he has and simply doesn't care enough to acknowledge me, which would certainly be on brand.

I stop beside the glass and watch instead of announcing myself.

I watch as he moves the puck from side to side while picking up speed, his hands quick and ridiculously smooth as he cuts across the offensive zone.

Huh.

I've seen Kentaro play enough times by now. I've photographed him through practices and games, watched him block shots that should've gone in and piss off opposing players simply by refusing to let them score.

But he's always in the crease.

Goalie. Big pads. Bigger attitude. Stops puck. Ruins dreams. Pretty straightforward job description.

I've never seen him skate around handling one like this.

And he's... really fucking good.

Not goalie who's screwing around before practice good, either. He's fast. Controlled. Completely comfortable with the puck on his stick as he changes direction and moves through another sequence of quick stickhandles.

Can he play forward too?

Defense?

Is there anything this annoying bastard isn't good at?

Probably smiling. I've yet to see convincing evidence he knows how.

Kentaro cuts sharply across the ice, and even though he's completely alone, his face has the same intense concentration he wears during games. Brows drawn together, his mouth set in that familiar hard line as he works through the drill like somebody's going to revoke his hockey privileges if he makes a mistake.

Jesus.

Does he ever half-ass anything?

He accelerates toward the goal, weaving the puck back and forth before scooping it onto his blade. One quick movement of his wrists sends it flying toward the upper corner.

The metallic ping of the crossbar echoes through the empty arena before the puck drops into the net.

Show-off.

My eyes follow him as he circles away from the goal, and that's when my attention gets snagged on the stupid backward baseball cap.

Again.

I don't know what it is about men wearing baseball caps backward, but something about seeing him without his helmet, his dark hair sticking out underneath it and his face slightly flushed from skating, makes him look less like the perpetually pissed-off goalie I'm used to seeing and more like... well, a ridiculously hot college guy.

It's honestly offensive that his personality hasn't managed to make him any less hot.

Kentaro Azuma is like my favorite dessert covered in ketchup. I know I should be disgusted, but for some reason I still want a bite.

The sudden scrape of his blades stopping near the glass makes me jump.

"Oh, crap on toast."