Page 26 of Faking the Goal

The bi-weekly Student Media meeting is entering its second hour, which means half the room is running on caffeine, the other half is running on spite, and everyone is pretending they're still paying attention to whatever is being discussed.

I'm firmly in the caffeine category.

Although at this point, caffeine has officially stopped doing its fucking job.

I've had three coffees today. Or four. I honestly can't remember, which probably says something about the current state of my brain. My eyelids feel like someone attached tiny weights to them, my head has been throbbing behind my temples since I woke up this morning, and I've already caught myself zoning out twice in the last ten minutes.

I haven't slept properly since the weekend.

The nightmares have been bad enough since Kirk attacked me, but after that fucking cat scared the living shit out of me and I came home to yet another bouquet of those creepy dahlias with an even creepier message attached, they've gotten worse. Every time I manage to drift off, my brain drags me straight back into the same nightmare, and once I wake up, that's it. I'm done. Sleep packs its bags and fucks off for the rest of the night.

I guess that's what happens when some anonymous creep tells you he's been trying to get your attention and will come find you if you keep ignoring him. The fear has been sitting in the back of my mind ever since, keeping me restless and jumpy, making every little sound outside my apartment suddenly worth investigating. Add several nights of shitty sleep to that, and now I've got a migraine that refuses to die and exhaustion written all over my face despite the heroic amount of concealer I slapped on this morning.

Normally, this is when I'd find myself a distraction.

A club. A party. A few drinks. Someone attractive and willing enough to help me burn through all that nervous energy until I'm too exhausted to think, let alone dream.

Except I haven't done any of that.

Not since Saturday.

And I fucking hate the reason why.

Poly stands at the head of the table, reviewing assignments for the upcoming winter issue of The Ridgewater Chronicle. As president of the organization, she has mastered the art of sounding cheerful while ruining people's lives.

I grip my pen and scribble something vaguely note-shaped across my notebook, pretending I'm absorbing whatever she's saying while my traitorous brain wanders back to the last person on Earth I currently want occupying space inside it.

Kentaro fucking Azuma.

More specifically, what he said to me at the Pond.

Maybe he was right.

Ugh.

The thought alone makes my stomach turn.

Not about the slut-shaming bullshit. He can still shove every word of that directly up his perfectly toned ass. There's nothing wrong with me enjoying sex, and I'm not suddenly ashamed of the number of men I've slept with just because some emotionally constipated goalie decided to climb onto his moral high horse.

But the reckless part?

Fuck.

I hate it when he's right.

Not that I'd ever admit that to him.

Over my dead, sexy body.

The man would have to pry that confession from my cold, lifeless hands. But unfortunately, being an insufferable grump doesn't automatically make him wrong, and I've spent most of the weekend coming to one extremely unpleasant conclusion.

Maybe I should lie low for a while.

Less partying.

Less clubbing.

And—I swallow. No more hookups.