Page 7 of Faking the Goal

My good mood drops several floors.

"Kirk," I mutter.

Is that prick done behaving himself already?

It's been over a week since the restraining order, and he hasn't contacted me once. No calls, no texts, no conveniently appearing wherever I happen to be. I'd finally started believing he'd gotten the fucking message.

But this?

I turn one of the dark flowers between my fingers.

It doesn't really feel like Kirk.

Kirk always gave me red roses. Every birthday, every apology, every grand romantic gesture designed to convince me he was Boyfriend of the Fucking Year—red roses.

Dahlias were never his thing.

Still, who the hell else would leave flowers outside my apartment without even putting their name on the card?

Maybe some guy I've hooked up with. Maybe someone from campus. Maybe it's completely innocent.

Doesn't matter.

I'm twenty years old. I learned sometime around kindergarten that mysterious gifts from strangers generally shouldn't be brought inside your home.

"Sorry, creepy flowers. You're very pretty, but you're also giving me serial-killer bouquet."

I straighten with them in one hand, lock my apartment behind me, and hurry downstairs.

By the time I push through the front entrance, I've already dismissed the whole thing as another problem for Future Taylor. Present Taylor has approximately fuck-all minutes to get to campus before her professor marks her late.

I cross the parking lot, stop beside the dumpster, and toss the entire bouquet inside.

"There. Problem solved."

I dust my hands together, dig through my purse for my keys, and hurry toward my car without looking back.

Because whether those flowers came from Kirk, some overeager hookup, or some random weirdo who apparently knows where I live, I'm not keeping them.

By the time my last class finally lets out, my brain is officially done absorbing information for the day. I make a quick stop at my apartment to unload the ridiculous amount of crap I've been hauling around since this morning, grab my camera, and head to the ice rink for my newest assignment.

Earlier this week, our editor decided to reshuffle some of the Student Media coverage for the year, and somehow I got bumped from football, which I covered last season, to hockey.

Not exactly a hardship.

I mean, come on. Instead of spending my afternoons getting cooked alive under the Florida sun while enormous men tackle each other over a weirdly shaped ball, I now get to hang around an air-conditioned rink and photograph enormous men beating the shit out of each other on ice. And hockey players are stupidly hot. It's practically a scientific fact. Big thighs, broad shoulders, messy hair, occasionally missing teeth—

Okay, maybe not the teeth.

But everything else? Very promising.

So yes, I was pretty fucking thrilled when I got the assignment. Spending half my semester surrounded by hot hockey players while technically being able to call it schoolwork sounds suspiciously like somebody upstairs finally decided to reward me for all the bullshit I've endured.

There is, unfortunately, one giant, perpetually scowling flaw in this otherwise flawless arrangement.

Kentaro fucking Azuma.

My lips immediately curl in disgust as the memory of our last encounter comes rushing back—the bathroom at the football house, that judgmental once-over, and the spectacularly shitty comment he tossed at me before walking away like he hadn't just insulted someone who was trying to fucking thank him.