37. KAVI

37

KAVI

Nobody is naked.

Sonya checked in with Quinn before leading us into the dressing room. Even so, my heart is a trapped bird in my chest.

This is wrong, a voice in my head scolds.

It's my father talking, saying that I'm entering a place where I don't belong. To turn around and go away.

I hold my breath, waiting for the Wings' coach to kick us out, but he hasn't noticed us. He's surrounded by people with clipboards.

Around us, hockey players are performing different game day rituals. Doing crosswords, playing video games, stretching. Their captain—Pink Headband—keeps the energy upbeat. Everyone is chatting, but there is an unmistakable glint in their eyes. Anticipation coats the air. They'll be battling on the ice soon enough.

I don't realize I'm searching until I find him. He's separate from the group, eyes closed. There's no tension on his face. It's the first time I've seen him so blankly peaceful. And…

Whew.

Usually, an air of grumpiness distracts from some aspect of his physical looks, but that personality veil can't kick in right now. No, I'm forced to suffer in the knowledge that Lokhov is ridiculously handsome. It's so outrageous that it's difficult to bear.

His hair is swept off his forehead, nose bridge is strong, scarred mouth too-generous. Shoulders are broad like a cabinet, inked and stacked with muscles. Through the tightness of his base layer, his body is strikingly beautiful.

I want him to open his eyes and see me—I crave it—but he doesn't.

Sonya nudges me. "Start taking pictures for your account, Kavi."

I stiffen. "No, I don't have permission."

Her mouth opens to argue, but before she can, Pink Headband spots her. Something ripples across his expression, quickly replaced with an over-the-top grin. He saunters our way.

"Sonya. Kavi. Nice to see you both. Kavi, if you are looking for our Great Wall of Emotionally Stunted Ice, don't be afraid if he doesn't move for the next twenty minutes. He's not dead. He just shuts off before the game. Something about ‘visualizations' I assume."

The hunky blond-haired captain does air-quotes. "But I'm available for all your needs." Blue eyes dance to Sonya.

She scoffs. "I see hickeys on your neck."

Pink Headband is taken back. He looks at her neck.

"You won't find any on mine." She delivers a stone-faced shoo-off wave.

His lips curve into a different smirk. Sex-drenched and devastating. "Any chance you would like some, sweetheart? I know a man."

Dead-eyed, Sonya doesn't blink. She flat out tells him, "Sex with me is overrated. It's like fucking a puppet."

I choke out a laugh.

Paradoxically, Pink Headband's eyes light up. Before he can vocalize one of the many things clearly running through his head, Sonya takes my arm and walks us away.

The Wings coach intercepts us, and air peters out of me. I've got my apologies ready, preparing myself mentally to get thrown out.

Coach Forrester is a bulky man with short-cropped hair and a neck that always has veins standing out. His suit is well-fitted, but because of the sheer width of his body, looks baggy. Around his mouth are prominent lines. Either he's had a full life of laughing or yelling. He glances at the camera slung around my neck and nods. "I'm guessing this is our new social media manager."

What—no—I'm not ? —

I'm about to clear everything up when he gets pulled away by someone else.

I turn to Sonya, horrified. "I'm not."

We should leave before anyone thinks the same!

"Just go with it, Kavi. Don't you want to win the bet?"

"No, nobody agreed to get their pictures taken by me?—"

She sighs something about sacrifices. Then she crooks a finger at Pink Headband.

He takes his time approaching. "Am I being summoned?"

"Kavi can take pictures of the team, right?"

"Can she?"

"She's your new social media manager. Can you tell the team?"

He cocks his head, expression unreadable. "What's the magic word?"

"You are a very reprehensible man."

"You don't have to do this," I tell both of them, screeching. "I'm not the actual social media person and definitely not qualified."

Sure, I know my way around a camera, but that's not good enough. I tug at the collar of my top. If I take this kind of gig—even for a fake second—I won't measure up. I'm not ready.

Pink Headband rubs his jaw. Then he raises his voice, not taking his eyes off Sonya. "Team. Kavi is our new social media manager. Give her whatever she needs."

Before I can argue, I'm surrounded by players. They pose, and everyone is waiting for me to start—and for some reason, I look at Lokhov.

My heart staggers to a stop, then restarts, pounding quicker.

Golden irises.

His eyes aren't closed anymore.

This pull in my chest is inexorable. Everything tingles, buzzing as if connected to an outlet.

Lokhov's eyes visibly drag to my hands, which are twisting around each other.

He stands.

And now I'm in front of him, not sure when I started moving in the first place. "Did you hear what…I'm supposed to do?"

He nods.

"I'm not—I don't think your team should trust me with this?—"

"If you do it, I'll give you something."

His low, murmuring voice is obscene. So much gravel.

"W-hat?" I stammer.

He bends, whispering in my ear. "I'll invite them all over, regardless if we win or not tonight. Don't you want to see me suffer like that?"

I stifle a gasp. He would hate that. Loathe it, even.

But he's offering this for me. As encouragement. As long as I step outside my comfort zone and try as well. Can I do it? Can I at least try?

"I—Okay," I whisper.

Lokhov is looking at me like he believes I can do this. The intensity of it makes me shiver. I'm propelled—to try.

Cradling my camera, my jitters bounce as I turn it on, remembering the first time I took pictures with it. Of food, weather, the sky, cars driving on the street… my parents.

Capturing them is what made something slot into place. Because of my camera, my dad got a different gift for his birthday that year. I still remember how it actually made him smile. It was a portrait of him, black and white, so stoic and strong.

He hung it in his office.

The only part of me that makes it in there.

In the dressing room, the camera goes in front of my face. I'm not invisible anymore, but I'm also not exposed. It's me behind the lens, safely hidden. Suddenly, the room feels steadier, like I can navigate it without tripping over my feet.

Quinn shows up, flexing his biceps. Matt shows off his missing teeth. Emmad sprawls like he's on the Titanic.

It takes a while before cliché poses morph into something deeper. I catch blurring limbs, an upturned mouth, the intimacy of an arm squeeze, downcast eyes, curled lips, a hand across the forehead… Is it nerves or anticipation? Someone prays. Snorts. Skates glint as they get sharpened. Another player wrestles a stubborn shoelace.

The tension in my shoulders melts. I float and disassociate into this nebulous state of being. Time means nothing. My camera grows its own personality, taking over. All I can do is listen and shoot.

When my lens passes over Lokhov, it won't move on right away. His eyes have closed, but the line of his jaw undulates, as if he's struggling to find that meditative state again. A wrinkle between his eyebrows is captured. So is the collar of his shirt where the stamp of a tattoo edges out. His Adam's apple is prominent and my camera loves it. Almost as much as his hands. Rough, wide, calloused. I peel myself away when their coach gathers everyone for a pregame speech. It's short and pointed.

The bottom line is:

Win.

The intensity makes me shiver.

Pink Headband notices. "Cold?" He roots around a duffle bag. "This is clean," he says, pulling out a jersey.

Before I can consider it, I'm physically removed from Pink Headband's vicinity. Two palms on my waist have carted me away.

When I'm placed down on my feet, Lokhov's nose comes down to mine. "Wait here."

He disappears and then returns, holding a different jersey in his hands. His number.

"What's this for?" I ask, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Arms up."

"I'm not that cold," I hedge.

"What if you get cold later, Basra? I'm not taking the risk." His chest crowds me. "You forgot to bring a sweater. This will keep you warm."

"His jersey was made of the same material," I note, unable to help myself. Lokhov is being pushy and that peacefully blank expression of his? It's gone.

He rolls his mouth. We went from no grumpiness to maximum thunder-cloud energy. "Mine is better."

"Let me guess. Because it's yours?"

He brushes a knuckle over my arm. Goosebumps have multiplied. "Arms up, Princess. Now."

My core tightens. Spasms. "And if I don't?"

"I won't be able to focus on the game. Do you want us to lose?"

He's exaggerating. He must be. "Don't be so dramatic."

"Want to risk it?" There's a short pause. "Do it for me."

How can I keep resisting this man? My defenses aren't what they should be.

I lift my arms. He opens the jersey and lowers it on me. When it drops to below my waist, his hand teases out the camera that's around my neck and lifts it through the neckline. His jersey is so big it fits through. The way he settles it against me, so carefully putting it back into place, has my pulse kick. A few times. His forefinger and thumb move to the sleeve, pinching the number. Twelve. His number.

Dmitri Lokhov won't meet my eyes, but inhales an uneven breath. Then he storms away.

The game is starting.