11. DMITRI

11

DMITRI

Before practice the next day, I go to the team gym, hoping it's empty but wanting credit in case Coach Forrester asks if I've been getting closer to my teammates.

It's not empty.

Adrian Hughes is there. Captain of the Wings. Big. Blonde. Cocky. Loves women so much there's a new one on his arm every week. He always has a stupid grin on his face and new jokes to crack.

Right now he's benching double his weight, whistling. When he sees me, he stops. Surprise shoots his eyebrows up. "Lokhov. The Ice Wall. You've never joined me before. Don't you workout by yourself?"

"Not here for you." I take off my hoodie. There's no need to warm-up since I spent the last hour doing cardio at my home gym. I go straight for the weights.

Hughes going back to lifting. "Stop breaking my heart. Not when I pine for you, Wall."

Speaking to him only makes it worse, so I don't. Not that Hughes cares. Everyone on the team knows not to bother me with small-talk except Hughes. He chats, sharing random facts or personal revelations about his life.

Over the years, despite ignoring him, some of the information has stuck. I know he has a big family, his dick is called Powerplay by whoever he sleeps with, and the most tragic thing to happen to him is that he's allergic to animals.

If the man wasn't an offensive sniper, who can shoot and stickhandle circles around anyone, I'd question why he was captain.

My muscles protest as I lower myself to the bench press. Fuck. Between playing and traveling for games, training, and sessions with the physiotherapist, my body is regularly sore, but this morning I woke up exhausted.

Sleep was difficult. I couldn't stop thinking about…

Her.

It replayed in my head, those cursed tears, and then—that car. I alternated between being sick with fury, remembering that she almost let herself get hurt… and this other sensation. One that went straight to my cock, remembering how she felt in my arms afterward. Not that I allowed myself any release.

No way will I fuck my fist to thoughts of Kavi Basra. It's not happening.

Bringing the bar down to my chest, I sneeze. Twice.

In a blink, Hughes is there, standing above me.

His hand hovers over the bar.

"You good?" he asks.

"Go away."

"Sick, Lokhov?"

Internally, I stiffen. If he thinks I'm sick, he'll tell Coach. We're flying out tomorrow for our next game, and I can't get benched twice in a row. Dad already called this morning, warning me this is how it starts. That if I lose my spot on the first line, no one else will want me.

I listened for half an hour because lecturing makes him feel productive enough to get out of the house. To not drink.

"I'm not sick," I sneer.

Hughes waits as if silence pressures me to keep talking.

You can't trust him. You can't trust anyone.

"Go away," I order.

Hughes' grin goes wolfish. "Repeat that a few more times. Just get your general assholery out of the way so you feel better knowing you resisted this bromance."

This is why I don't go to the team gym.

Setting the bar down, I get off the bench. Digging headphones out of my bag, I put them in and start bicep curls with dumbbells. It doesn't take long for a sheen of sweat to cover my skin. My tattoos contract as I work my muscles over.

Hughes pulls out a skipping rope, leaving me alone—for ten minutes. He's doing interval cardio. Between sets, he badgers me with questions I pretend not to hear.

"If you're not sick, you must have partied last night. Which club?"

Hughes skips again before talking again.

"Blondes, brunettes, or redheads? Me, I love all women, alone and in multiples, but I should know my best friend's preferences, just in case."

More skipping.

"Need a wingman? I could tag along. The whole team could. Since you never come out with us, maybe we should go out with you."

The rope blurs. Ignoring it and him, I turn to face the wall.

"Actually, it's a great plan," says Hughes, shouting louder. "With your not-speaking and the I-hate-everything attitude, I'll score more. Women will want you to fuck off, and for me to fuck them. It's perfect."

Switching to rock music, I turn the volume up another notch. My jaw pulses as I remind myself I haven't sacrificed everything to become a professional hockey player to make friends.

I know what happens when you let people influence you. You end up on the floor of a bar with your knee twisted the wrong way, alone because your not-girlfriend started a fight, but ran off after you got hurt.

From the start, I told Sam we were casual.

She agreed, insisting on a weekend of fun. Fake IDs, drinking, random bars.

With how desperate I was to both escape and fix my depressed, washed-up hockey player of a dad, I agreed to come along. On our first night out, she got into an argument with a stranger. She told him that her tatted up boyfriend was going to set him straight. Before I knew it, punches were thrown. The stranger had friends. My knee got hit from behind, and I woke up the next day in the hospital with my dad looking over me.

We'll fix up your knee, son, but you can't let this happen again. Relationships are distractions. Men like us can only do one thing well at a time. And it's your purpose to continue our family legacy.

He was right. My knee recovered because I dropped everything in my life except for hockey. It's how I got signed, and it's how I'll get my contract renewed.

Soon, the rest of the team shows up. They gravitate around Hughes, who gets them laughing.

When it's time to wipe down machines, I take out my headphones. Pre-practice ritual, Hughes leads a meeting. He talks about the strong right winger on the first line we're facing tomorrow. And their new rookie who has the largest signing bonus in league history but is choking so far in his games.

"Don't count him out," warns Hughes. "He's got something to prove."

Behind us, Forrester walks into the room. He says a few words and then we head to the ice to practice.

When I'm tying up my skates, Hughes comes to stand beside me. He uses a pink headband to push back his hair before putting his helmet on. Hockey players are superstitious, following the same rituals repeatedly. But I've never seen him wear that.

"Gift from my niece," he says, catching my eye. "Do you have any?"

"Nieces? No."

"Explains a lot. Don't worry, I'll get her to make you one."

"If I wear it, will you stop talking to me?"

"Nope."

"Worth a shot."

Hughes laughs. "You know, I think we made some progress today. Maybe you aren't a lost cause, Lokhov. For the record, I'm here if you ever want to talk about anything, hockey or otherwise. I'm a good listener. Occasionally, I shut the fuck up."

My knee is acting up again. What if it gets worse?

"Anything on your mind?" he asks, his characteristic grin fading away because of some expression my face is making.

Sometimes the pressure of keeping everything together chokes me.

Forrester blows the whistle, telling us to get our asses on the ice. The sound knocks common sense back into my head.

You can't trust anyone.

I go past Hughes without answering him.

During the drills, I sneeze a few more times, discreetly, into my glove. This is happening to me because I followed Kavi Basra to her hotel in the rain yesterday. Now I've got a tickle in my throat and my knee is creaking like an old joint. If I don't rest tonight after a treatment from my massage therapist, it will get worse.

That's all I should be thinking about, but I'm not.

My mind is on her, and my body is suffering for it.

It's a good thing she didn't take my offer to make Smith jealous.

Kavi is the kind of woman who doesn't ripple through a person's life, barely leaving a trace. She wreaks havoc with her personality, her laugh, her skill at murdering donuts, the way her hair blazes in the sun and curls in the rain, how she can go from crying to blistering sarcasm to almost getting hit by a car within minutes. Tears should never zig-zag down her cheeks again.

The puck is shot my way. It bounces off my skate and goes wide because I wasn't ready for it.

As I skate after it, I tell myself this proves it.

I can't afford to be around Kavi Basra, and how it's a good thing we'll never be alone together again.

Around her, I forget that hockey is my only priority, and that can't happen.