12. KAVI

12

KAVI

"Is that what you're going to wear?" asks my mother, in a tone that means it should not be what I am choosing to wear.

I look down. Oversized white t-shirt, black biker shorts, and sneakers. Once I throw on my thrifted denim jacket—also oversized—it's the perfect airport ensemble.

Lifting my shirt up, I sniff, not smelling anything other than lavender detergent from the hotel's laundry services. "It's what I wore on the flight to come here. You said nothing then."

"How about this?" She pulls out white, gorgeous frills. A dress you wear to post aesthetic pictures of yourself on social media. Perfect for a picnic, or, if dawdling through a winery, ideal to billow under your bum as a cushioned seat with all the skirt fabric. Before I can blink, matching wedges are brought out. They've got ribbons that tie at the ankle.

"Did you buy this today?" While my mother had walked around the neighborhood, I spent the day editing photographs from her friend's anniversary party. The friend who hasn't reached out to ask for the pictures yet. The one who had another photographer covering the party.

"I thought of my daughter and bought her something nice."

That's actually really sweet. Maybe she wants to take my mind off the fiasco that is my life right now. "Thanks, Mom."

After hugging her, I unzip my luggage and put the dress and shoes inside. Like always, I packed two weeks of clothes for a two-day getaway because I spend way too much time staring at my clothes with no idea what to wear, thinking I've got nothing good even as I keep buying new stuff.

An alarm on my phone goes off, reminding me. We're still in Vancouver and our flight back home to Seattle leaves soon. Time is of the essence! We should already have left the hotel.

If my dad was here, he would be freaking out, but he flew out with the team yesterday on the jet. Mom and I are booked on a normal flight today, first class. It's how it's always been whenever we travel with the Blades for their away games. Supporting them from a distance. Separate, but together. Cheerleaders, hanging out in the background.

"Kavleen, no."

Looking up, I see my mom's face has dropped.

"I think you should wear it now," she insists. "It's a beautiful dress."

"Yes, it is. But planes get cold. And you know I love to be comfortable. That means wearing pants or shorts."

"Wear it for me?"

Imagining myself in the fussy material as I sit in a cramped airplane seat makes my skin itch. "I would rather not, but I'll save it for a special occasion, promise." I prop my suitcase back up. "Plus, there's no time. If we don't leave right now, we might actually miss the flight."

Going to the door, I wait for her to follow.

She's distinctly not following.

"What is it?" I ask, starting to feel anxious.

"I—I didn't want to say anything, but you'll want to look special when we land in Seattle."

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "… Why?"

"Don't get mad," she says in a rush. "But Tyler is going to pick us up at the airport. And I know you two are fighting, but he promised he got something planned that will show you how sorry he?—"

My luggage falls to the ground. The heels of my palms grind against my eyelids. There's this sensation of my throat wanting to close. I need to scream or cry or something to clear it up.

My mom's saying there's no pressure (really?!) but also how we shouldn't throw away our relationship without a sit-down conversation.

Without a word, I go lock myself in the bathroom. Outside the door is a soft scuffling sound, a few moments later.

"I'm not choosing him over you, though I know that's what it feels like," my mother mumbles. "Just—the team finally has a bit of a break from playing, and all Tyler wants to do is see you. You can show up, even if it's to yell at him, right? Because what's there to lose if you do?"

What she really means is, What other options do you have?

I'm breathing hard out of my nose, trying to hold back the screaming. The real problem is that she's right. Suddenly it feels like there are no options. My dad booked the flight for us, but I could… What? Not show up? Book another one? Sneak back to Seattle and sneak into my apartment… where Tyler could still ambush me?

No, I'm not ready!

Not when I've got this ugly urge to kick him, and not with everyone applying pressure from all sides, as if it's only a matter of time before I give up and roll over. My mom's doing it right now, my dad surely is in on this, and so are the Blades' girlfriends and wives with their countless messages asking why I'm making such a big deal out of nothing.

Don't they get it?

I need time to think. To catch my breath. To be properly pissed.

Another voice, specifically Tyler's voice, chimes in my head.

I'm the Captain of the Seattle Blades, and you are ? —

There's a mirror in front of me. For some reason, I can't look at my reflection. I turn around so I'm staring at the toilet. Not much better, could be used as some sort of metaphor for my state of affairs, and frankly, an overall depressing sight.

"I'm going to call us a ride-share, Kavleen," calls out my mother, as if I need to time-manage my freakout better.

Right. Hurry it along.

What to do… What to do… What to do…?

My fingernails bite into my palms, thinking about the frilly dress. I had this image of my mother wanting to burn the world with me as soon as she heard what Tyler did. That she'd be my co-conspirator. That we'd both kick down the door to my fiancé's penthouse, knock some shit around, then storm out in a blaze of fury. With a blunted pang in my stomach, I realize it's what I want. Someone to tell me it's okay to feel this way. To be messy and mad.

So far…

Lokhov.

He's the only one who has.

Suddenly, I recall our last conversation. The offer.

An alternative to getting on the flight back home and having to take part in Tyler's apology tour.

My legs pace. I'm pulling my phone out and fumbling with it. He's probably forgotten it. I'm a blip of whatever in his life. There's no way he'd actually agree to the lunacy of this Be Seen With Me plan, even if it was his idea…

I message him fast, so I don't chicken out.

ME

Theoretically, if I want to come to your next game, how would that happen?

I shove my phone back into the pocket of my shorts so I can't stare at it, wondering if he'll reply. He probably won't. Especially considering how I ran from him last time, when he was trying to literally give me the shirt off his back.

Okay. That was a bit much.

I didn't ask Dmitri Lokhov to strip-tease the rigidly defined V lines carved diagonally across his hips. If anything, exposing himself was reckless. That whole fight was about avoiding car accidents, not causing them. What woman could walk straight after witnessing that level of musculature? It was some Roman statuesque display, meant to be immortalized in marble and placed behind gallery ropes.

For no reason at all, I splash water on my face. At the same time, my phone vibrates—and outside my door, my mom's telling me to rush again.

I muffle a shriek.

NO WAY.

Lokhov has responded.

It isn't neutral or particularly polite.

LOKHOV

You must be desperate, reaching out to me.

I am.

An undeniable fact I convey by sending the face-melting emoji.

He's typing.

And then, he's not.

Right. It's probably hard to brainstorm a way to end this conversation.

My phone vibrates. I check his reply and gasp.

LOKHOV

If you want to watch me play, a car picks you up.

It sounds too easy. There have to be strings somewhere, but I'm backed into a corner and can't think of anything else to do.

ME

Okay…

LOKHOV

Can you be ready soon?

Cue internal panic. ( Is this really happening? )

"Don't wear the dress if that's the problem," my mom concedes through the door. "Speak to Tyler wearing whatever you want, sweetheart."

ME

I'm ready now. Staying at the same hotel.

LOKHOV:

Five minutes.

ME

Are you sure? I'm asking for a lot.

LOKHOV:

It's only one game.

Right. One game is… one game. A gurgle of a laugh escapes me. It feels like an escape hatch has cracked open, and I can duck out that way—avoiding my real life for longer.

ME

So get in the car… and then what?

I'm wondering, should I book a flight? From what my phone tells me, Vancouver is playing an away game. I should look up where they are going, so I can head there. Then I'll sit in the stands, buying the ticket myself, of course, since I don't want to owe Lokhov anything beyond what he is already doing for me, even though I know players get complimentary seats.

My phone buzzes.

LOKHOV:

Just get in the car.

Finally leaving the bathroom, I tell my mom I'm not flying with her. She's confused and asking questions, but also freaking out because her ride to the airport is here.

"Mom." I grip her shoulders softly. "You can either go home to Seattle, or stick with me as I figure this out."

She leaves for Seattle. My dad expects her home tonight.

I don't have time to question how that makes my heart curl like paper put to heat, so I don't. Five minutes later, I go downstairs and meet a man in a suit waiting to pick me up.

"Kavi Basra?" he asks. "For Mr. Lokhov?"

I stumble, but catch my balance in time. This is really happening.

I face the driver. "No, I'm not for him, sir, as much as this is a mutually beneficial arrangement where we pretend to be seen on each other's arms for one game so he can piss off my fiancé—er, ex -fiancé. As for what I get, I've clearly lost my mind and am operating from a place of rage, hurt, and confusion, proving a point I'm still struggling to understand myself."

He blinks at me. "But are you Kavi Basra?"

"Oh. Yes. I am. You've got the right person."

He nods politely, before settling my stuff and me in his backseat on very soft, expensive leather seats. Before I can continue overthinking, I'm whisked to the airport.

When my phone buzzes again, thinking it might be Lokhov (realizing what a mistake this is and taking it back, maybe?), I look at the notification.

DAD:

Your mom said you aren't coming home.

Instant stress. The kind you taste on your tongue.

Trying to be strong, I message assertively.

ME

I have other plans.

DAD:

What other plans could you have?

All of a sudden, the whole situation hits me. I'm close to crying again, but I stop the urge by pinching my thigh. This isn't a betrayal, I think to myself. If anyone should be hurt, it's me.

Since the open-relationship-fiasco-where-my-ex-fiancé-may-or-may-not-be-poking-his-dick-into-places-it-doesn't-belong-and-has-probably-called-me-fat-more-than-once incident, there's been so much incredulity every time I've disobeyed expectations.

Tyler was flabbergasted that I've been ghosting his calls. My dad is disappointed and expects me to behave better for his sake. My mother is confused that I don't want to fly home with her or give in to whatever spectacular gesture Tyler planned for me.

And now this question from my dad: What other plans could I have?

It devastates me.

I've been called a loser in high school before. The not-so-smart coach's daughter who buries her nose into sketchbooks. I've had people tell me I'm so lucky after Tyler asked me out. It's actually what most people say. That I'm blessed. Very fortunate. I'm going to have the best life.

But now that I'm trying to push him out of my life, I get reactions of confusion. Everyone is wondering what other life there is for me. What other plans?

I don't know the answer to that. I know I don't want to go back to being called a loser.

There has to be something else out there. Something I can achieve for myself.

Kavi Basra is….

Heading to see a man I shouldn't be talking to in the first place.

He is Tyler's literal nemesis in hockey. The man currently ranked above Tyler in the league (I checked, sue me). Also, the man who gave me the cold shoulder for so many years, except one night at prom.

Too soon the vehicle stops, and I'm led down a street by a woman wearing a headset, towing my luggage behind me.

"There must be a mistake," I tell her, struggling to keep up.

"Sorry for the hurry, Ms. Basra. We're running behind schedule."

"But this isn't the airport?—"

"Right around the corner," she interrupts. "Almost there."

"For the record, I would not like to be murdered in an abandoned warehouse, which is where we seem to be going."

She doesn't laugh at my joke, which is frankly stressful. I've got no weapons on me. And there's been so many times I've pondered self-defense classes, but never taken them. My cardio endurance is abysmal. Still, running is the best bet. I'll find some shrubs to hide behind. Rub dirt in my face. Army-crawl to shelter. Live off the land. And?—

Who am I kidding? That sounds horrific. These people might as well have their way with me if survival camping is the alternative.

A private jet comes into view.

Utterly shocked, I can't help but head towards it. It's small, sleek, and luxuriously dignified. In this random plot of land, it sits on a paved runway. Squinting in the distance, some other buildings come into view. I see the main airport isn't that far off, so I've not been brought to the middle of nowhere to be gruesomely ended, after all.

With no noise at all—the signpost of true wealth—a staircase descends from the jet for me to climb. A man in an orange vest takes my luggage from me. When he gestures to my tote-bag purse, I shake my head. That has my camera in it. No way am I leaving it behind anywhere again.

"Up you go, Ms. Basra," the woman says. "You're the last one to board."

When I don't move, she frets. "Please go."

I blink rapidly at her.

Right. She means me.

Slowly, I step up. And then, before boarding, I turn around to wave at her. "Um, thank you."

Inside the plane, even the air smells rich. Notes of oak and eucalyptus. Stepping through a curtain, I'm confronted by all sorts of men. They stop talking and stare at me.

I clutch my bag to my chest and make a noise.

It can't be.

BUT IT IS.

The Vancouver Wings.

A gorgeous blonde man in a pink headband is the first one to speak.

"So this is who you held up the jet for, Lokhov?"

Following the direction he's looking, I turn—and that's when I see him, sitting with his legs spread out, hands folded on his lap like a wrathful inked king.