Page 63 of Faking the Goal

Not invited. Expected.

Like my life is a boardroom seat he reserved years ago and is finally ready to claim.

I keep my back to him and yank the driver's side door open.

"Kentaro!"

His voice cracks through the night, sharp enough to stop me cold.

"Do not walk away while I'm speaking to you."

The tone does it. That specific register—deep, commanding, the same voice he used when I was seven and left my homework unfinished, or twelve and came home one point short of a perfect score, or seventeen and told him I was accepting a hockey scholarship in the U.S. instead of going back to Japan and applying to Tokyo University.

It hits some primitive part of my brain, the part shaped by sixteen years of impossible standards and consequences for falling short, and my hand freezes on the handle.

I hate it. I hate that my body responds to him before my mind can catch up. I hate that after all this time, after everything, he can still stop me with five words and the right inflection.

Slowly, I turn around.

My face stays blank.

My voice does not.

"What do you want?"

He studies me for a moment, like he's assessing damage to an investment.

"Have you considered my offer?"

I almost laugh. The sound that comes out is closer to a scoff, sharp and dry. "Offer?" I repeat. "You mean your threat?" I meet his gaze directly.

His jaw tightens.

I take a step closer, my own temper rising to meet his.

"The one where you cut off Mom's medical support and Miho's tuition if I don't do exactly what you want?" I ask. "The one where you hold them over my head until I give up hockey and come running back to take over the company you love more than your own family?"

His mouth presses into a thin line.

It's like looking into a mirror I never asked for. Same dark hair. Same eyes. Same hard set to the jaw when we're angry. Genetics is a cruel joke.

One of the many reasons I can't stand looking at him for too long.

"I have thought about it," I say, my voice lower now, rougher. "That's all I've done for the last two months. Every day. Every practice. Every game. I can't get on the ice without hearing your voice in my head, wondering if this is the moment you decide to punish Mom and Miho because I didn't fall in line fast enough."

His expression doesn't change, but there's a flicker in his eyes. Annoyance, maybe. Disappointment. It's hard to tell with him. It always has been.

"That is not what this is," he says evenly.

"Really?"

"No." His tone hardens. "This is me offering you a future. A place in the company. A legacy that already has your name attached to it whether you want to acknowledge it or not."

I stare at him.

He keeps going, voice smooth, measured, maddeningly calm.

"You should be looking at this as a gift, Kentaro. As proof that I trust you. That I believe you're capable of leading Azuma Holdings into its next chapter. I am handing you an empire most men would spend their lives trying to build."