33. DMITRI

33

DMITRI

A few days later, I'm reading the file Coach Forrester sent me, titled The Road to the Play-Offs. It's twenty-pages long and covers offensive defending. He describes how I need to play differently, strategically partnering with our offense to win the Cup.

Or else.

He hasn't written that, but it's implied. I know what's at risk.

Last year we made it to the finals and had a shot at the Cup until the Blades bulldozed us. This year with our new roster, we have everything we need to bring it home. Victory is ours, within reach. All I have to do is play at the top of my game. Once I do that, the Wings won't trade me. I'll stay in Vancouver. My dad will be happy. Proud. Better.

Needing to eat, I go to the kitchen.

Fuck, she's there.

Kavi spots me and rushes to close her laptop. "Are you heading out?"

"Coach canceled practice, so we can rest before tomorrow's game." My gaze moves between the camera and her laptop. "Editing?"

"Photos from the last two gigs I did, so I can send them over and get paid."

The kitchen island separates us. She's on a stool on the other side, fully dressed. This was bound to happen again, us running into each other.

I tell myself I can handle it. I need food.

Opening the fridge, I consider different meals prepped in containers. Precisely measured macros delivered by a weekly food service. Turning my baseball cap backwards, I grab the pasta.

Behind me, Kavi makes a low, tortured noise. My balls ache. Shit, I'm hardening. Why did she make that sound? What did I do?

I lecture my dick to fucking behave while heating up the food. When it's ready, deliciousness wafts through the kitchen.

Her stomach rumbles. She mutters a swear, blushing.

I grab a fork and slide the plate to her. She doesn't grab it.

"Should I order you something else?" I ask.

"No. That's your meal, not mine."

For some reason, I sit across from her. This will be quick. I'm funneling pasta into my mouth.

Silence stretches, making Kavi huff. Maybe she feels obligated to say something because she's living here, even though I told her the place was hers to use, no matter what.

"Ready for your game tomorrow?" she finally asks, opting for small-talk.

Am I ready?

My dad asked me the same question. We talk every morning where he says the same things.

Keep disciplined. Become better than your old man. You need to succeed or you'll regret it forever, trust me.

At the end of the call, he also asks if anyone knows about my knee. I tell him they don't. He tells me not to trust anyone with the information. Not my coach and not my team.

"I'm ready," I tell Kavi.

It's my standard answer, so why do I add the second part?

"But it's not enough."

Don't trust anyone.

"What are you nervous about?" she asks cautiously. The strap of her top is loose. If I focus on that, on my underlying lust, the hunger of this simmering need to touch her… I can deal.

But this other thing?

Wanting to share more? It's slippery in a way nothing else is.

"I'm not nervous," I say, filling my fork with pasta.

"So what?"

I bring the fork over so it waits in front of her mouth. Her stomach has grumbled again. I can't concentrate knowing she's hungry. The sound grates my senses.

She refuses to acknowledge the food. We're in a face-off. But my arm doesn't falter, even when she rolls her eyes.

When her stomach grumbles for a third time, she swears. "Fine, but only if you answer properly. What is not enough?"

"The last game Hughes and I tried to coordinate. I went forward to help with an offensive push, but it didn't work. The other team took advantage and scored."

She doesn't take the fork. Instead, she lifts herself over enough to take my food with her mouth. An absent gesture, done without thinking.

God have fucking mercy. I reload the fork and stick it into my mouth.

"I'm sure you two will figure it out," she says after swallowing. "It takes practice."

"I haven't been practicing."

While her eyebrows furrow, I prep another forkful and feed her.

This is a mistake. Even so, my veins hum. Her pretty plump mouth opens for me. It accepts me. My food. She's taking me in. It… does something to me. My balls ache harder than ever before.

"What do you mean you haven't practiced?" Kavi wonders.

When her tongue pokes out, licking the corner of her mouth, words are glue in my head.

"Forrester thinks it's not…" I'm struggling. "… I… it's about hockey—communication. He wants me to spend time with the team…. getting to know them personally. So we're in sync. On the ice."

Coach gave me that file, but he hasn't spoken to me properly since last game's screw-up.

"Is he wrong?" Kavi asks.

"Making friends isn't my job, Basra."

She laughs. "Oh, I see the issue. Dmitri Lokhov is allergic to people."

Her head tilts.

"Why do you think that is?" she asks.

"I'm a dick," I say between bites.

"No. Tell me, really. Why?"

"My dad." Shit. There it is. The sharing. It happened when we were dancing when I told her about my mom, and now it's happening again.

Tentatively, her hand reaches out. It taps the edge of mine.

The contact sears right through me. My teeth are on edge because of her warmth.

I pull away.

"He had a no feelings policy," I say in a tone that means this conversation is shutting down. "If it wasn't about how to get drafted to the league, he didn't care to hear it. Whatever."

"That's…" Kavi shakes her head. "I'm sorry."

I watch her get off the stool like she's on her way to hug me.

"Don't." A one-word warning shot.

She can't touch me.

"I don't need you to take care of me, Basra."

"That's—It's not what I was—" She bites her lip. "Then what do you need?"

She asks, as if the scale lives in her head. For Kavi Basra does not know how to be just a taker. Her eyes beg me to give her an outlet to repay the favors she's been taking from me.

"What do I need?" I repeat. "Nothing."

"There must be something."

"Nothing."

Coming to my side, she goes on her toes, trying to reach for a glass. I pluck it down, fill it with water, and hand it to her. She downs a third in one go.

Her mouth is tilted. She's thinking.

It unnerves me.

I leave.

We lose our next game.

My knee hurts.

I have to sink into an ice-bath and then wrap it up. On my phone are voicemails from my dad telling me everything I did wrong tonight.

In my ear is the coach's voice telling me I'm not performing because I'm not in sync with the team. I need to get stronger, faster, better.

My whole body is rigid from pent-up tension when I get home. I'm no good to anyone in this mood. I need to lock myself away.

Kavi is there, waiting for me in the kitchen. The smell of butter thickens the air. She greets me with a soft, "Hey." And then, "Sorry about the game. You'll win the next one."

I open my mouth to tell her I'm shutting down for the night, but she gestures to a dish on the kitchen island. I mean to ignore it, even as I'm stepping closer.

I blink. "You baked… a giant cookie?"

It's lop-sided, crumbly and has chunks of chocolate spread through it. It's triple the normal size.

Kavi's eyes dart to mine. "I did. For you."

Fuck. "Why?"

"In case you won—or lost and wanted to eat your feelings away."

I haven't had anything sweet since my knee was originally busted. Since then, my diet has narrowed into the same meals. Looking down at the cookie, my mouth waters.

"Not as a thank-you for staying here," she rushes to explain, fussing with her hands. "I know you don't want any appreciation for that blah-blah-blah?—"

My mouth quirks. The mood I was in before, somehow, evaporates like it was never there. I sit down and bring the tray closer to me. "We can share."

We do.

I eat a bite and groan. There's no way I can stop myself. I eat my share in three bites. Wiping my mouth, I look up. Kavi's mouth is open. The tops of her cheeks are flush.

"Guess you liked it…" she says with a slow smile.

Understatement, yes. But the cookie is done now. I should get up and leave.

Instead, I follow Kavi to the living room because she's rambling about this show she's been watching. It's the most outrageous reality competition. She asks if I've heard of it. I shake my head no. She puts it on, maybe to fill the space between us, as if surprised we are still interacting. I should make it easier for us both and leave, but the first scene hooks me. I'll leave after it finishes.

Kavi doesn't watch in silence. This is clearly one of her favorite pastimes. A security blanket of activity. She wonders, vocally, about each scene.

Do you think she really likes him? Okay, his mother is a huge red flag! Do you think they'll actually get married? Why do they keep dating each other? That family tree is going to be a wreath. At least the outfit is great, though. Is she the drama or am I the drama? I don't know about long distance. Does it ever work?

I find myself answering. We talk back and forth like the easiest game of conversation ping-pong I've ever played. I don't watch the clock. I'm completely relaxed even though I shouldn't be.

The show ends.

We keep talking.

She says she would pay to see me on a reality tv show. Like a survivalist competition. I tell her I've never camped before. Kavi pretends to be horrified before admitting she's also never camped. We're the worst kind of people who grew up in a small town. Urbanites in hiding.

I connect my phone to my flat screen tv. We watch videos of people vlogging about living out of a van, confirming we would hate it.

Hours pass by.

My routine is in shambles.

I tell myself tomorrow will be different.