Page 62 of Faking the Goal

Apparently, the answer is more than I should.

"Delete it," I say again, already knowing I'm wasting my breath.

Taylor backs away another step, camera still clutched protectively in both hands. "I think I'm gonna go before you lunge for my SD card."

"You're impossible."

"Always am." She winks. "Proud of you, goalie."

"Hontō, atama itai onna da na."She's a real headache, that woman. I grumble it to myself, low and irritated.

She only laughs, like she somehow heard the insult even though I know she didn't understand a word of it. Then she keeps walking backward down the hall, still grinning at me like she's delighted with herself.

But as I watch her—the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles, the confidence in her retreat, the deliberate slowness of each step like she's daring me to follow—something shifts in my chest. A small, stupid warmth that has no business being there.

I like the way it takes over her whole face, like she can't contain it.

The thought comes so naturally that it takes me a second to realize what the fuck I just admitted.

I like seeing that smile on her.

Worse, I find myself wanting to see it again.

Maybe even wanting to be the reason for it.

My brows pull together.

What the fuck?

"...Yabai na." This is bad.

The high from the win dies the second I step out of the arena and see who's standing beside my truck.

Shinzo Azuma. My father. Standing beside the driver's door of my F-150 like he owns the parking space, the truck, and by extension, me. Three-piece suit, charcoal, tailored to within an inch of its life. His dark hair is exactly where it's supposed to be—not a strand out of place, not even in this wind. Hands tucked into his pockets like he's here for a business meeting instead of ambushing his son in a parking lot after a hockey game. Under the glow of the lot lights, his expression is unreadable, but his eyes pin me where I stand.

For one stupid second, some part of me waits for it.

A congratulations.

A good game.

A how are you doing?

Anything remotely resembling what a normal father might say after his son wins a game.

Nothing comes. Of course it doesn't.

I don't break stride. I walk past him like he's a streetlight, reach the back passenger door, and yank it open. My hockey duffel goes in with a thud that shakes the frame. I slam the door harder than necessary.

"You could say hello," he says. His voice is low, measured. The accent is barely there anymore—just a careful precision to each word, like he's reading from a script he wrote himself.

I move to the driver's side.

"Have you thought about what I said to you?"

I grip the handle tighter.

Two months ago, he flew all the way to Florida after I ignored his calls and informed me—because that's what men like Shinzo Azuma do, they don't ask, they inform—that the moment I graduate, I'm expected back in Japan to take over Azuma Holdings.