36. KAVI

36

KAVI

The night of the game, I walk over to the arena and find Sonya waiting for me outside.

I shuffle back a step, not expecting her to be there.

"It's so hot today," she complains.

I'm wearing a pleated skirt with a crew-neck t-shirt. Sonya has on wide-legged cargo pants, and a long-sleeved t-shirt that layers mesh on top of what looks like cotton. Her hair is in a braided bun. It's Scandinavian punk. No chains or accessories. Comfy edge.

"You're wearing all black," I note.

"I acknowledge no other color."

"Even on stage?"

"More so on stage," she emphasizes.

We walk into the arena. My mind races, and I keep looking at her. I want to ask. Are we… friends?

It comes across as rude, but I do not mean it that way. It's just—I would love clarification if we are, as a person who sucks at making friends.

Historically speaking, in school you could subtract me from any group and nothing important would change. I was a warm body to keep around or that extra person you added to fluff up the number count. When people said they liked me, they meant they liked how the awkward, shy girl always agreed with them.

Kavi Basra was a parrot. She thought being malleable and copying others is how friendship worked. Not that it really worked for me. After school I would linger, but no one knew me enough or wanted me enough to hang out. That's why summers really sucked. I knew I'd be forgotten.

At first I thought the color of my skin had something to do with it—and maybe it didn't help in the town I grew up in—but it was more than that. Connecting felt impossible. Every time I thought I had a best friend, I found out I wasn't theirs.

"I'm sorry," I say to Sonya. "That you have to hang out with me." Someone must have told her to.

"Sorry? I'm not being forced. Quinn said you were coming tonight."

"But you hate hockey games."

We pass through some turnstiles. "Yes, hockey sucks." Sonya's lip curls. "It's a bunch of neanderthals wanting to concuss each other. And I'm including my brother in that group."

She knows the stadium better, leading us.

"Was it Quinn who thought I could use some company?" I wonder softly.

A recommendation from Tyler is how it started with the Seattle Blades. I got added to the hockey girlfriend's group chat when he became captain. The invite had me grinning and hoping. Finally, I'd have a group of close friends, and we would go over to each other's places for dinners, drink on patios, watch movies, send memes, and plan trips together. I could message someone, asking how they were genuinely doing, and they would reply back, wondering the same thing about me.

That didn't happen. The Seattle Blades girlfriends were nice, and we did ask about each other, but it never felt like I could answer anything other than I'm great. How are you?

You always had to be generically great, even when you weren't.

More recently, I've been getting these messages:

What's happening between you and Tyler?

Or long-winded defenses about him.

Tyler is so loyal. Don't believe any stories anyone is telling you! You don't know how great you have it. I don't want this to be your biggest regret, sweetie. Come over and we can all talk about it!

People say that friends split up when partners separate, picking sides. In my case, it can't be more clear. Everyone around me—maybe even both my parents—are a part of Tyler's group.

Sonya touches my shoulder. "Hey. You went somewhere for a bit. You good?"

Oh. "Yeah." I fiddle with my top. "I'm—yeah. Sorry."

"Are you sure you weren't born in Canada?" Sonya levels a stare at me as we head to our seats. "We're the ones who are supposed to say sorry a lot."

"Sorr—I'm working on it."

"Good. Now you were asking if Quinn set this hang-out up, maybe because number twelve asked him to." Sonya snorts. "Well, my brother is a soft pile of mush, contrary to what people think. But he knows better than to influence me."

I believe her about the mush part. You could tell Quinn was devastatingly handsome before his scar. Now, people must view him as scary. Hopefully not after they get to know him, though.

Sonya rubs her elbow. "I hate people. And you people please."

"Is that why we should hang out?" I ask, wringing my hands. Is this some sort of experiment?

"No." Her weight shifts between her feet, almost as if she's nervous. But that can't be. Sonya is the epitome of cranky confidence.

"Before you left the club, you asked Quinn about me." Her hand slashes the air. "It was—considerate. I don't know. Whatever. Most people don't like me. Not that I care."

It strikes me. I straighten. Have I somehow met another person who also finds this life awkward sometimes and struggles with making bonds? I almost want to ask her if she has no friends, but that's so invasive and shouldn't matter, anyway.

My shoulder lifts. "Most people don't have anything to say about me. I'm not sure what is worse."

We stare at each other… and then start randomly nodding.

Around us, the stadium is mostly empty. We are allowed in early because of our team access. Sonya takes a seat. I lower myself down beside her. There's no book with her this time, I notice.

The pair of us stand out. Me, with a camera slung around my neck, and Sonya, a ballerina with a resting sour face.

Strangely, the image makes me want to smile.

But don't get ahead of yourself, Kavi. There's no guarantee we're going to be friends, so I have to still be happy alone. To figure out how to do that.

"Anything new happen since we last met?" she asks.

I'm living with Lokhov.

I think she might already know that. It's not what I say.

"Me and number twelve—Lokhov—have a bet."

Sonya goes hawkish, making me wonder if all athletes are the same. Super competitive. "Tell me."

I explain how I want Lokhov to win tonight, because I can't imagine everyone at his place for a barbecue. His untouched sanctuary, so unprepared for hosting or, I don't know, any kind of group camaraderie.

The thought of beer pong in that kitchen… and the nosy chit-chat… and the very personal getting to know you…

Lokhov would die. Hate it all.

I. Can't. Wait.

But also, if that happens, I've got to prove I'm making progress, too.

My heartbeat gallops.

I tell Sonya there is nothing in my photography account to show him.

Sure, I've got old work from before I could post and random birthday shots from gigs, but it's not good enough to go online for everyone to see.

She pulls me up to stand.

I'm confused. "Where are we going?"

Her expression goes cat-like. "You need pictures? We're going to their dressing room."