16. KAVI

16

KAVI

Third period starts and the glass in front of me rattles like chilled teeth. People slap their hands on it. I'm doing the same, but also drinking beer, forgetting about it whenever our team?—

Whoa. Not our team. Brain glitch.

Whenever the Wings set up a play.

Which they can't do now because the referee calls offside.

"That wasn't offside," I yell, shaking my fist. Someone behind me agrees. They raise their voice, joining mine.

Two fans both screaming in agreement.

Totally normal, and yet?—

If anyone could see me now, I'd be worried. Kavi Basra is loud. Misbehaving. Not acting very background-like. Good thing no one is around that I've got to blend in for. My parents don't know I'm here and Tyler certainly doesn't. I'm sure Dmitri doesn't care about the shrieking of my voice either. I bet he's forgotten I'm watching the game.

He races for the puck right now, by far one of the fastest players I've ever seen. When his blades send a spray of ice flying, my adrenaline soars. He's got a blank look on his face, relieving the other team of the puck, slapping it to one of his forwards.

Laughter bubbles in my chest as I watch him dismantle their offense. He's not even letting the other team pretend to be in control. Any momentum they pick up crashes on the cliffs of Dmitri's brutal focus.

When Pink Headband (what I deem their captain Adrian Hughes to be in my head) scores, his victory lap is fun to watch, until it ends in front of me.

At first the attention makes me shrink, but then I see his vivid blue eyes are on the woman beside me. The one who slid into the seat a few minutes ago. The one reading a book at a hockey game.

"Sonya," he calls out in a sing-song voice.

That must be her name.

Not that she's paying him any attention. Eventually, Pink Headband shoots me a bashful smile that I can't help but return. He doesn't seem upset by her rejection, but is more used to it, I think.

When he skates off, I shake my head in awe.

Having the captain of a hockey team give you his full attention is like standing unprotected against the sun. Ask me, I know. Somewhat. Tyler's full attention was rare, like he kept it away, so I would chase that first high I got when he asked me to be his girlfriend in front of the school.

Some part of me should miss it, but I haven't thought about him at all during this game. Weird. Hockey and Tyler have always been linked. Now I'm cheering on another team so effortlessly.

Before I can wonder why, my eyes find Dmitri again. He's—not got a very blank expression on his face anymore.

When our eyes meet, my inner muscles involuntarily clench. This… What is this feeling?

Too soon, the game continues. The other team fights hard for a three-on-two rush. The home fans cheer. I'm banging the glass, yelling, "Defense!"

The puck is lost in a scuffle. A hockey stick goes loose on the ice. Bodies fall, some on the Wings' goalie.

Beside me, the woman abandons her book and stands. The color in her face has drained.

"Hey," I can't help but ask. "Are you okay?"

"He's my brother. The goalie. Quinn."

Thankfully, fast-acting referees clear the pile-up. Quinn is back up, braced and ready.

The woman sits back down. Her fingers reach for her book, but pull away at the last second. She faces me, distinctly readying herself for small-talk. I spot the signs because I do the same, but for her it's a visible effort. As if the next few minutes will be dry-swallowing a pill.

Oddly, I'm reminded of a cat and water.

Her all-black outfit suits her. So does her hair color. If it came from a box labeled intense midnight, I wouldn't be surprised. It's dramatic against her light brown skin. Even with no obvious makeup on, she is stunning. Instead of a general tomboy, her fashion sense strikes me as goth-inspired athleisure. Hoodies, sweatpants, lace-up combat boots, kohl-lined eyes.

"Who do you know on the team?" she wonders in a monotone.

"Number twelve."

"Are you his girlfriend?"

"No. I'm his…" I trail off, not having an answer.

"Let me guess. He says he doesn't want to put a label on it."

The derision in her voice is obvious.

"It's not like that," I say, which is a vague defense, but also my situation is strange to explain.

"Some friendly advice," she offers. "Hockey players are all the same. Protect yourself from them."

I don't know why, but I have an urge to defend Lokhov. Maybe because he's the reason I'm here, escaping an apology ambush from Tyler. "Actually, number twelve is helping me."

"Do what?"

It's complicated will play into her disdain of hockey players and prove her point. "We are using each other…" I start.

"For?"

Maybe it's the beer or the excitement of the game. I decide to go for it. "Hopefully to make my ex-fiancé metaphorically choke on his own dick."

Her mouth drops open. "Okay. Did not expect that. Why?"

"Normal reasons."

"He cheated?"

"Yes," I say, before adding, "Most likely. I'm not fully sure. But I heard him say we're in an open relationship when we're not."

"Girl."

"Everyone thinks we should get back together," I confess.

"Wait. Rewind. How will your ex choke on his own dick—metaphorically, even?"

Ah. Good question. "Because I'll post something on social media or something. Otherwise what's the point? No one will know I'm here if I don't." I'm speaking as if reminding myself. Reluctantly, I put down my beer and take out my camera.

She whistles. "Are you a photographer? Also, I feel like I should get your name. Mine is Sonya."

"I'm Kavi and—" I blush. "I'm not a photographer-photographer."

Proper photographers shoot masterpieces and have their work in galleries. I haven't done any of that.

While I'm adjusting the camera settings, I ask Sonya. "You're here to watch your brother?"

"I come to his games for some ‘sibling bonding.'" She does the air-quotes. "And sometimes he shows up for my performances."

"Performances?"

"I'm a ballerina."

I stop fiddling to gawk. "No way. That's really cool."

"Thanks."

"Okay. So you come to watch your brother, but what about their captain? I think he just put on a show for you."

Sonya instantly scowls. "Please. That slutty man obsesses over anyone with a vagina. I hate his type. How about you? And number twelve?"

I laugh—too loudly. "That—we've never—impossible." Inside me, a flood-line of warmth rises, and my back tingles. "Lokhov hates my ex. That's the only reason he agreed to fly me out to this game. Trust me, I'm not his type. There's nothing like that going on between us."

My camera is ready. It finds Dmitri. He's?—

… not skating like he normally does. There's a curious tumble in my belly, watching him. Instinctively, I'm shooting photos and it's like every frame is more intense than the last. Gone is his meticulousness. He's not a net-front defenseman right now.

He's stolen the puck, flying forward. Suddenly, my heart races. Another player crashes him into the boards, but he doesn't lose possession. Still, I cry out a noise. Is he hurt? That sounded so painful!

When he gets checked again, I surge to my feet. Everyone in the stands is getting up. It's the last few deafening minutes of the game. I'm glued to my camera, following Dmitri. He's the only one I see.

He makes a lane for himself, moves in tandem with Pink Headband as if they are reading each other's minds, penetrating the offensive zone and Dmitri?—

Scores!

Horns blare. The crowd boos.

Dmitri turns around and skates in a straight line directly….

To me.

Soon his face fills my camera. Gulping hard, I lower it. Heat pools low in my belly. My heart pumps madly.

Golden eyes. There's no obvious light reflecting into them, but the ice and the glass must be working together for his eyes to lighten to that color.

Seated behind me is a group of young women. They wave their hands frantically; call out his name; almost climb over their seats.

One wonders, "Is he looking at me?"

He's not. His eyes haven't left mine. I know because I can't move, pinned down by their consuming intensity. Underneath his helmet, dark strands of hair stick to his forehead. Cheeks are flushed from the crazy God-like cardio he's put his body through. I always knew Lokhov was broad-shouldered and tall, but wearing his hockey gear makes him feel twice the size.

Even drenched in sweat, I hate to admit, he's the most exquisite man I've ever seen.

Coach yells out his name, telling him to return to the bench.

It's like he doesn't hear him, the way he's not moving.

Without meaning to, I put my palm against the glass. His eyes lower to my hand. His glove comes up. He taps the other side.

His mouth does it again. That smallest slope to one side.

And then, finally, he turns around and skates away.

Almost tripping backward, I fall down into my seat.

Sonya whistles. "Oh man, you're in trouble."