43. KAVI

43

KAVI

I sleep into the afternoon and when I finally get out of bed, I gawk. In the living room, a crew of people are setting up hors d'oeuvres, readying champagne glasses, and bunching up floral arrangements.

"Mademoiselle," says the one closest to me. "Can I get anything for you?"

"Who are you?" I ask, genuinely flabbergasted.

"The party planning committee."

At my blank stare, he informs me the owner of the house is on the terrace.

That's where I find him, drinking a dirt-colored smoothie. His back is to me and behind him is the sprawling city. Against all the hustle, noise, and concrete, he cuts a stark figure in black. This is Dmitri when he's not wearing a jersey or his after-game suits, or his gym clothes with that wretched backwards baseball cap. He's got well-fitted trousers on. The taper of his shoulders to waist is criminal, emphasized by a black-collared shirt. Short-sleeved. Tattoos present, of course, but also the glint of silver rings on his hands.

My chest explodes… with butterflies. I'm incapable of dealing with this mafioso arrogance on top of everything else. It's not fair for anyone to look like this.

"Hey," I blurt out.

Lokhov turns around.

Charged silence thickens between us. I don't know what to say. What's appropriate after he wore an apron, fed me ice cream, and then watched me touch myself?

Do you like touching me?

It kills me.

So you should stop?

That would kill me more.

Are we going to talk about it?

Dmitri slants his head. "About last night—" He goes rigid. "Wait. Why did you just step back?"

"I didn't—" I have.

"You're inching away from me."

"Am I?" I force myself to stop. "Not on purpose."

His posture stutters. "Is this because of yesterday? I'm sor?—"

"No," I interrupt. He can't apologize. "Last night was—perfect."

It was. I can't lie and say it wasn't.

He steps forward. "But? Why do I hear a but?"

Does he?

Maybe it's there because I stayed in a relationship with Tyler for so long. There were so many times he said or did things to upset me, but I let them go. And I kept doing errands for him and my dad, even when I didn't want to. I let myself stand in the same spot forever in my life.

And now I don't know what Dmitri wants, but I also know if I ask him what he wants, I risk the progress I'm making on focusing on myself… because then his needs will take shape in my head.

Not that he's looking for a relationship. Last night he told me as much. He hasn't had girlfriends.

And if Dmitri has never had a girlfriend, it's because he's never wanted one. He's not a relationship person which shouldn't surprise me. So many athletes I've been around prefer physical relationships, never putting a label on anything, and having multiple partners.

This would be a fling, right? That's all?

But he's also the person who owns this penthouse, a refuge that gives me space to figure out my life. How can I risk messing that up?

I suck in a breath, glancing away. "… I'm worried about more change. I need things not to get complicated between us," I say quietly. "Can they not change? Is that okay?"

Dmitri doesn't answer. I'm afraid to see how he's reacting to this, so I don't check. A moment later, his knuckle is on my chin, lifting my face to his. I'm having trouble reading his expression. He's got it locked down so tight.

"Whatever Kavi Basra needs, she gets."

"It can't ever be that simple."

"It is for me."

I sigh. "Don't say that. I'll get a complex."

The corner of his mouth slides up. "Get one."

My pulse jolts. Not only from the sustained eye-contact, but because our bodies sway closer as if they can't help themselves. When our legs brush, the contact reminds me.

"Your knee, is it better?"

Dmitri pulls away. "It is."

"How badly was it hurt?" I remember how slowly he carried me in his arms last night and the ice-bath before that. "Does it hurt now? Should you get it looked at professionally?"

Dmitri shifts. There's an awkward edge to his posture. Maybe I'm pushing too much, because it seems like he really doesn't want to talk about it. "It's… healing," he finally offers.

"Oh—that's–"

"Aren't you going to ask me why there are people decorating today?" he interrupts.

That was an obvious change of topic, but Dmitri's never been a subtle man.

"Sure," I concede. "What's happening today? Why are people decorating?"

"A barbecue."

My eyes widen. He's doing it? Throwing a barbecue for the team? But?—

"Where is the barbecue grill?"

His mouth flattens. "Is that important?"

"It's a… barbecue."

"I see," he says. "What about catering? When will that come out?"

I try not to laugh, clutching my stomach. "We went to the same high school so I know you weren't some trust fund rich kid. You must have been to a barbecue before. You must know there aren't champagne towers because that's not casual at all. It's like the opposite of casual." My palms spread out. "This is about team building, remember?

"The goal isn't to intimidate?" He taps his chin. "Or to prove how much better you are?"

I can't tell if he's being serious, but I have a feeling he's both out of touch with social gatherings and being purposefully extra.

"Do you know how to friend?" I smile. "Because I don't think you know how to friend."

I expect he'll deadpan about how he doesn't care. That he always does what he wants, no matter what. I ready myself for the most monotone reply.

"You're right," he says softly. "I don't know how to friend."

Oh, no.

My heart…

Unable to stop myself, I put a hand on his arm. "Would you like some help?"

"If you wouldn't mind?"

I don't. "Here I thought I was a lost cause with my life, but this makes me feel way better."

"Mean, Basra." He nudges me. "Where do we start? Should I call my assistant?"

"Nope. Prepare yourself, snob. We're going to the supermarket."

We send the party planning committee home, paying them their full wages for the day. All that's left behind are the canapés and the champagne.

Two hours later, we're home with a lot of groceries and the biggest, most elaborate barbecue grill on the market. It takes up a whole corner section on his terrace.

And then—the team arrives.

Laughing, wide-eyed teammates who have clearly never come to Lokhov's place before. By the door, my feet lift off the ground. I'm bear-hugged by every player.

"Kavi, this is amazing!" A wine bottle is pushed into my hand.

"Thanks for having us over!"

Emmad does a three-hundred-sixty turn. "This place is huge!"

Matt offers me a jumbo container of mashed potatoes. "My grandma's recipe," he shares with a sweet, gap-toothed smile.

Quinn hauls in a keg of beer. "Kavi, where can I put this?"

I gesture. "The terrace works!"

Dmitri is there, manning the barbecue.

It strikes me when I detangle myself from the team—who have enthusiastically found the champagne tower—that Dmitri is running a hand through his hair and fidgeting with knobs on the grill.

Is he… Could he be… Shy?

I don't know how to friend.

I'm unabashedly staring at him. My smile is soft and goes softer when our eyes meet. There it is. The flash of his uncertainty.

He is shy.

And suddenly I'm re-evaluating high school memories of him. He went to post-game dinners with the team, but whenever I saw him, he was eating or busying his hands with a drink, never really talking to anyone. I've also never seen him at one of those bonfire parties or the backyard hangouts bored kids in a small town put together.

Does he actually not know how to do this? To socialize? To let people in?

At the thought, protectiveness surges through me. I'm compelled to move. Weaving around players, I go to him, meeting Hughes along the way, as if he had the same idea.

(I've decided to call him Hughes now, because, I don't know… It has nothing to do with wanting to have only one hockey player in my life that I have a nickname for, once I figure out what it is).

"This thing is a beast," says Hughes, admiring the grill. "Let me help. I can help, right? We can be grill brothers!"

Puppy eyes come out, and honestly, I can see why women fall for him. The silliness is infectious. Even Dmitri's mouth twitches.

"You can stand beside me," Dmitri says. "Just don't talk."

Then he looks at me, his hand stroking my arm so quickly I feel like I imagined it. "Let me know if today gets to be too much."

"I'm good. Um. Thanks."

"How adorable," smirks Hughes.

Me and Lokhov roll our eyes together.

Quinn ambles over. He's got the keg ready.

Hughes clears his throat. "Who all is coming today?"

"Is Sonya coming today?" I ask, because my instincts tell me that's who Hughes is asking about, but also because I want to know. Since going to the game together, we've been messaging each other. And it's been great, cool, and casual. Even when I want to cap-locks send her a text that says:

I LIKE YOU. BE MY CLOSE FRIEND, PLEASE.

"Nah." Quinn shakes his head. "She's got rehearsal. And this is pretty intimate. Her hatred of hockey players can know no limits and I—" Quinn's smile is wry. "—don't want anyone to hate me. Especially when our captain here loves to test himself on her."

Does anyone else notice the subtle drop in Hughes' shoulders? I don't think so.

He shrugs. "She knows I'm not serious."

He turns to adjust the grill knobs which makes Dmitri knock his hand away. They busy themselves, arguing about settings.

Quinn and I move away from them. "It doesn't bother you?" I ask. "The way your sister and… Hughes…"

Hate-flirt? Is that the right word? Mostly hate.

Quinn shrugs. "I'm her older brother, but she's a grown woman. We've been through a lot."

"Sonya takes care of herself," he adds. "And there's not a chance in hell that she falls for Adrian." We look at the blonde man poking Lokhov for fun. "Don't get me wrong. I love the guy and women love him, but Adrian is the type of man who loves the chase and hates the commitment. And Sonya hates both with a passion." He points to the keg. "Anyway, can I get you a drink?"

"Sure."

Inside the apartment, appetizers are demolished. Everyone comes out to mingle on the terrace. Suddenly, it's crowded.

I edge away. This is Dmitri's chance to bond with the team. I should keep busy in a corner. No one wants to talk to?—

A hand touches my shoulder. It's Matt. "Kavi. Some rookies want to meet you. Is that okay?"

I'm so surprised I can barely nod.

"This is Jai and Raghr," introduces Matt.

Jai is dark-skinned and boyish. Raghr is light-skinned with blonde hair growing to his shoulders. We chat for a bit until I get another tap on my shoulder. Quinn is here with my drink—and a plate.

"Some of the appetizers Lokhov told me to save for you," he says.

"Oh. You didn't have to."

"Anything for our new social media manager," he declares.

My cheeks flush. "I'm not…"

"How is that going?" someone asks me.

"Is that what you always wanted to do?" another player wonders.

Curious eyes gather on me, causing goosebumps to slide along my back. I'm not invisible but there also isn't this clawing need to run away. It's because.. damn it … everyone is so nice.

"I never imagined myself taking official photos at the game," I answer honestly. "It was lucky, that's it. I got lucky."

"That's like me," shares Jai. "I never thought I'd make it in hockey."

Matt elbows him. "Then you got signed."

" My lucky day." Jai rubs at his brow. "Sometimes I still don't believe it."

That's exactly how I feel.

I can't believe the pictures I took at the game, and the fact I posted them online on an account followed by thousands of people. I don't believe it so much that I've been afraid of checking out the response on the Wings' social media. To see what the comments are like, if there are any.

"Thanks for having us by the way," says Raghr.

"Oh—You should thank Dmitri. It's not my party or my place."

As a group, we angle ourselves to look at him.

Hughes and him are in a rhythm, flipping burgers and arguing… with their body language, strangely, completely relaxed. A happy place for them?

Raghr scratches his head. "Do you think Lokhov will like my housewarming gift? It's tickets to the spa." He glances at me. "For both of you."

"Oh, we're not—" I'm stuttering. What I mean to say is we're not together.

Matt jumps in. "Mention it to him later. If he grunts at you, then you're in."

I blink, wondering out loud, "Does that bother you guys? Him not being…"

A chorus of answers finishes my sentence.

"Remotely social."

"Talkative."

"A people person."

Quinn smiles. "I grew up so poor that when I got my first real paycheck with the team, I fumbled it pretty badly. And I didn't think anyone would sympathize, but Lokhov overheard me stress about it. And later my assistant got a message from his assistant. It was the contact information for his financial advisor."

"He found me crying," admits Jai. "My boyfriend cheated on me. And I didn't want to tell anyone at the time, because I was so embarrassed. Lokhov found me breaking down in the locker room. He came over, sat down, and waited. Didn't say anything, but listened. For thirty minutes."

I see it again, what I first spotted a while back. A typhoon is across the shore. The power of Dmitri Lokhov. Except, it's closer to me than it ever has been. I—I can't say I'm breathing evenly now. It's one thing for my body to react to him physically, but another to be caught up by these other parts of him.

"My brother got cancer," says Matt. "He's okay now, but we held a fundraiser in his name. Lokhov donated the most out of anyone."

There are other stories. So many of them.

The genuine care and respect everyone has for this man matches a truth that has been creeping up on me. That Dmitri Lokhov is good. The best kind of good because his goodness is not advertised or bragged about, or used to gain him any favors. It's there, in the background, so matter-of-factly.

He came to Seattle after he heard I was homeless and offered me a place to live.

He said he had other business in the city, but now I'm not so sure.

In fact, this whole barbecue fulfills a promise to me. All in return for me being brave enough to take my pictures.

If you do it, I'll invite them all over, regardless of whether we win or not tonight.

I clear my throat and excuse myself. My chin dips. I'm looking into the distance as if answers might pop up there.

Remember, he doesn't do relationships. And he's got his life all figured out, and you have no permanent place to live or job to support yourself.

I weave around players, going inside, rushing to my room. My pulse doesn't go down until I grab it, needing it desperately suddenly. My camera.

Having it in front of my face and taking photos is my lifeline, especially when I don't understand what I'm feeling anymore and what this yearning is that stirs so deeply inside me.

I ache.