Page 5 of Faking the Goal

I grab my purse and step out of the bathroom, only to walk face-first into something so solid that I stumble backward.

A hand catches my arm before I can lose my balance, and it takes my still slightly sex-addled brain a second to register that the brick wall I just collided with is actually a man. A very broad man, judging by the chest currently filling my entire field of vision, with enough muscle packed beneath his black shirt that my nose might have grounds to file an assault charge. Worse, he smells ridiculously good—clean soap mixed with cedarwood and some warm, spicy cologne that immediately makes my lungs greedy for another breath.

Jesus. Whoever this guy is, he has absolutely no business smelling this fuckable at two-thirty in the morning.

"Oops, sorry..." I say in my sweetest voice, steadying myself with a hand against his chest before slowly dragging my eyes upward.

And upward.

Until I meet a familiar pair of hazel eyes beneath an equally familiar scowl.

Kentaro Azuma.

Ridgewater U's hockey goalie.

My surprise immediately turns into a grin because, despite the less-than-welcoming expression currently carved into his admittedly gorgeous face, I'm genuinely happy to see him. He's one of the people, aside from Zach, who helped me when everything with Kirk went to shit last week. When I needed somewhere safe to stay, Kentaro let me crash in his room, which I later learned was apparently a pretty big fucking deal considering the guy guards his personal space almost as aggressively as he guards his net. I've wanted to thank him properly ever since, but between classes, work, and the fact that Kentaro Azuma seems to vanish from campus whenever he isn't required to be there, I haven't exactly had the opportunity.

"Oh, hey. Kentaro, right? I'm not sure if you remember me, but—"

"I know who you are."

Well, okay then.

There isn't a single ounce of warmth in his voice, and the scowl on his face somehow deepens as his eyes move over me. Slowly. Not in the same hungry way Corey's did a few minutes ago, either. This feels more like an inspection, his gaze lingering on my messy hair and swollen lips before traveling over my rumpled clothes and eventually returning to my face.

I've been looked at plenty of ways by plenty of people, and I stopped giving much of a shit about anyone's opinion of reputation a long time ago. Still, something about the way he's studying me makes an unfamiliar flicker of self-consciousness crawl beneath my skin. Maybe because I know exactly what I look like right now. Anyone with two functioning eyes could probably take one glance at me, then at the bathroom I just walked out of, and correctly deduce that I spent the last twenty minutes getting railed against the sink.

Not that it's any of his fucking business.

Besides, everyone knows Kentaro is standoffish. He's quiet, antisocial, perpetually brooding, and apparently came out of the womb already disappointed in humanity, so maybe that scowl has absolutely nothing to do with me.

When he turns as though he's about to leave, I remember why I'm actually glad I ran into him.

"You know, I've been meaning to thank you for letting me crash in your room when I needed somewhere safe to stay. I heard you're not exactly the type to let girls into your space, so, uh... that was really nice of you."

"You don't need to thank me for that," he interrupts, finally turning back toward me, and God, his face really is the exact opposite of my cheeriness. Broody. Frowny. Sharp enough around the edges to make him look like a thunderstorm somehow figured out how to become a ridiculously attractive Japanese man. Thank God genetics blessed him with that face, because without it, the permanent scowl might make him look like the suspicious neighbor halfway through a true-crime documentary.

"Zach asked me for a favor," he says. "I was just being a good teammate. A good friend. To him."

Ah.

There it is.

He puts just enough emphasis on those last two words to make the rest perfectly clear. If it wasn't for Zach, you'd be sleeping in a cardboard box, Taylor, and I would not have blinked.

My right eyebrow does this thing. This very specific, barely-perceptible twitch that happens whenever someone says something that makes me want to throw a drink in their face. It's my tell. My poker face is garbage, and my eyebrow is the snitch.

I purse my lips. Force a smile that feels like it's made of concrete.

"Understood," I say. "Still. Thank you."

"Whatever."

He turns away again, and this time I let him get several steps before something occurs to me.

"Wait, weren't you going to use the bathroom?"

Kentaro stops and glances back at the door behind me before his eyes settle on me again. "Changed my mind."