Page 108 of Faking the Goal

I pull my knees toward my chest as every little sound outside my apartment suddenly seems louder than it did five minutes ago.

This place was supposed to make me feel like I had some control again.

Now every tiny sound outside my door has me wondering if I ever did.

*****

KENTARO

By the time practice ends, I know I've been off all afternoon.

Not enough for Coach Hopper to call me out on it, but enough that I notice every little thing. My reads are a fraction slower than usual. I'm arriving at my spots a split second later than I should. My glove's been fine. My angles have been fine. My positioning, mostly fine. But mostly doesn't cut it. Not when goaltending is a game of inches, and those inches are supposed to be the one thing I can control.

I strip out of my gear in front of my locker while the rest of the guys head for the showers, their voices bouncing off the tile, loud and careless in the way they always are after practice. Someone laughs from the other end of the room. Someone else curses because Davis apparently used all the hot water again.

"Hey, man."

I glance up to find Zach walking back from the showers, a towel hanging low around his hips, droplets of water still clinging to his damp hair. He jerks his chin at me in greeting before leaning one shoulder against the locker beside mine.

"Hey."

He studies me for a second. "You good?"

"I'm fine."

The lie comes automatically.

Truth is, I'm anything but fucking fine.

It's been four days since I last saw Taylor. Four days since I watched the brightness disappear from her face because of me. Four days since she slapped me hard enough to turn my head and stood there afterward with tears in her eyes, clutching that sheer fabric over herself because I'd somehow managed to make Taylor fucking Lewis self-conscious about the way she was dressed.

That part keeps coming back to me more than anything.

The way she looked down at herself.

The way she tried to cover up.

I did that.

I still don't know what the fuck came over me that night. I could blame the whiskey, and God knows I've tried, but that would be bullshit. I wasn't drunk enough to not know what I was saying. Nobody poured those words into my mouth. I chose them, and somehow I chose the ugliest ones I could possibly throw at her.

I've tried calling her since then. Texting. Nothing. Every message sits there unanswered, and every call eventually goes to voicemail. The couple of times I've spotted her on campus, she's changed direction before I could get anywhere near her.

She didn't even show up to Friday's game. Or Saturday's.

Taylor has covered every home game she's been assigned since the season started, but this time someone else from student media was behind the glass. I spent the first period looking toward the spot where she normally stands with her camera before finally accepting that she wasn't coming.

I know I have no right to be bothered by that.

Doesn't seem to be stopping me.

"You sure?" Zach asks, pulling me back to the present.

I stare down at the gear between my feet before letting out a long breath.

"No."

He folds his arms across his chest. "What happened?"