Page 161 of Faking the Goal

Stupid. So stupid.

I rake my hands through my hair again, harder this time, the roots protesting with a bright flare of pain.

My phone is clutched so tightly in my right hand my fingers ache, but somehow my thumb still finds Kentaro's name without me consciously telling it to. The call doesn't even ring.

Straight to voicemail.

Of course.

He's probably in the middle of his meeting with Clint Murray right now, his phone on silent while they talk about agents and contracts and whatever else comes with preparing for a possible NHL career.

The line disconnects.

I lower my hand slowly, my phone still trapped in my trembling grip, before pressing both palms against my eyes hard enough to chase bursts of color across the darkness. It doesn't help.

Nothing helps.

I've never felt so completely, unbearably alone.

When I finally lower my hands again, my vision is still blurred by tears.

Then I see them.

A pair of deep brown eyes, warm and impossibly steady, cutting through the haze like the first glimpse of shore after being lost at sea.

Those eyes do something to my chest that no amount of deep breathing has managed—they ease some of the tightness that's been sitting there, and suddenly the air finds its way into my lungs a little easier.

Worry floods those familiar eyes an instant before he's moving, closing the distance between us so quickly I barely have time to straighten before his arms are around me, holding me with enough certainty that every frantic thought in my head falters for the first time since I opened that locker.

I blink up at him, still struggling to believe he's actually here.

"H-how are you here?" My voice trembles. "Weren't you supposed to be meeting with that sports agent tonight?"

His brows draw together, as though the answer should've been obvious.

"I didn't go."

I stare at him, confused.

"...Why?"

His chin rests lightly against the top of my head for a moment as he answers. "Because the whole drive there, all I could think about was you being here by yourself." He shakes his head almost to himself. "The closer I got, the more it bothered me. I knew I wasn't going to be able to sit through that meeting and actually pay attention when I'd spend the entire time wondering if you were okay."

He leans back just enough to look down at me, his gaze searching mine. "I've wanted to meet with Murray for a long time, and Coach made it pretty fucking clear how important tonight was. I know I probably just blew my chance with him." His jaw tightens. "But if something happened to you while I was sitting there talking about my fucking career when I already knew I shouldn't have left you here alone..." His expression hardens, and for a brief second I catch a glimpse of the fear he'd been carrying all evening. "I don't think I would've ever forgiven myself."

He swallows before giving me the smallest shake of his head.

"And because there wasn't anywhere else I needed to be."

His words wrap around me almost as tightly as his arms do. I grab fistfuls of his Henley and bury my face against his chest, breathing him in as though the clean, familiar scent of him is the first real oxygen I've had since opening that locker.

The panic that had been clawing through me only seconds ago begins to loosen beneath the firm pressure of his embrace, and when his hand slides slowly up and down my back, I cling to him harder, almost afraid that if I let go, every horrible image will come rushing back.

"Tell me what happened?" he asks, his voice so gentle it nearly undoes me all over again. The worry threaded through it is unmistakable, but he keeps his tone low and even, as though he knows anything louder might send me spiraling right back over the edge.

"He was here," I manage, the words muffled against his chest. "He was here."

His whole body goes rigid around me. "What?"