53. KAVI

53

KAVI

Tim is a mid-fifties clean-shaven bald man in a well-fitted suit. He's agreed to a meeting today before the game tonight. I haven't told Dmitri I skipped my Seattle interview or that I hope to stay in Vancouver. I want to see if I can apply for the social media manager position.

"Kavi Basra?" Tim waves me into his office.

"That's me." I fidget, apparently still awkward enough. I guess when it comes to photography, my emotions slip-slide between progress and uncertainty.

He folds his hands on the desk. "I was disappointed you didn't take our offer."

Disappointed? Offer?

The incredulity must be obvious on my face because Tim wonders, "Didn't you get my email?"

"N-no."

"The photos you did for us had triple our usual engagement numbers. And since numbers don't lie, I sent you a job offer."

When? I would never miss that kind of thing. "I didn't get an offer."

"Check your email, Ms. Basra."

I pull out my phone and can't find anything.

"Search for my name," he instructs. "In case it ended up in?—"

"Spam," I whisper. There it is. I can't believe it. I say just as much.

"Believe it. I want you to work for us."

"You want me?" I repeat.

"As a social media manager, yes. It took some time to convince my boss the team needs to invest in marketing. You know what some of these older business people are like. If it's not measurable directly, it's not worth it." He huffs. "But I told him that social media is where fans get to know our players. It builds a community and increases ticket sales."

He goes on, repeating what I suspect is the actual speech to his boss. Me, I'm sitting here completely dazed. He wants my work. For real.

The doubts that hibernate in my head start shrinking. My spine straightens, slowly growing power like the sails of a boat catching wind.

I'm not being given this position because the team knows me. This isn't out of pity or pressure.

Numbers don't lie.

They don't, do they? My work… Could it be ready? Is it good enough? Could I actually share it with the world? Will it mean something to someone else?

"I haven't found anyone to fill the spot," says Tim, "and honestly I hate interviewing, so I've been putting it off." He studies me seriously. "Please review the offer. We would love to have you keep photographing for us."

"I—okay."

"Good. Please get back to me within a few days."

I don't remember leaving, wandering the stadium, or making my way to the Wings dressing room. Before I can turn around, Hughes rounds the corner and spots me. His face breaks into a grin.

"You're back, Kavi." He opens the door, gesturing me forward. "Come on. The rest of the team is inside."

I've barely followed him in before I'm getting hugged by Quinn, Matt, and Emmad.

"We're going to let loose tonight after the game," says Matt. "You have to come out with us. It's our last stand."

"Because the play-offs are right around the corner," Emmad translates.

"Sure," I laugh. "That sounds fun."

"Are you back?" asks Quinn. "Please tell me you are back. We need Lokhov to be Lokhov again."

Before I can question what that means, the door behind us opens. Dmitri strides in, halting when he sees me.

For a moment, I wonder if it's okay that I'm here. He's never made me feel unwelcome, but we've also never talked about it. I don't want to assume it's always alright to be around this part of his life, especially when he needs to meditate before playing. Just because he's been inside me, it doesn't mean I'm given free rein to trespass everywhere. What if?—

Dmitri smiles at me. That tiny rare smile.

Walking past his team, ignoring them, he comes to stand in front of me. "Hi."

"Hi." Unfiltered happiness blooms in my chest.

"You came here early. I thought we were going to drive over together."

"Oh. I spoke to Tim. He, um, offered me a job as the social media manager. I kind of—no, I really do—want to take it. I'm thinking I will, which means I'm probably here more perman?—"

Dmitri drops his bag. He grabs me by the waist and spins me around. There's no misinterpreting his reaction. It doesn't matter if his baseline expression is grump , because I can tell. His eyes are glued to me, staring unbelievingly. He tucks his face into the crook of my neck. I feel it. His long exhale.

When I'm set down, his expression is one I've never seen before on him. The closest word I can come up with is beaming.

"Stay to watch the game?" he says, more pleading than offering.

"I would love to."

Pretty soon, I'm in my usual seat in the arena, wearing a jersey with LOKHOV written on the back. He very bossily dressed me in it a few minutes ago.

Right before the game starts, Dmitri skates over.

He waits.

I press my palm against the glass. His glove comes up and taps the other side. That tiniest smile pulls his mouth to the side.

My heart . It's rushing away from me as if tethered to him.

He doesn't have girlfriends, I remind myself. And I just came out of a long-term clusterfuck of an engagement. It's not—we're not—we haven't talked about anything serious like that.

The whistle blows and the game starts. Now that I've learned about his leg, I notice so much more. The shadow of a wince, him clenching his jaw harder, and how he favors his unscarred knee when stick-handling the puck. His cheeks are bright with exertion, dark hair is dripping, and yet—he keeps going, skating harder and harder.

My hands thump against the glass until they're sore. It's fun and completely terrifying at the same time to have a person you care about give it their all, where blood and teeth can scatter across the ice at any time.

The game spills to overtime, four-on-four. Dmitri is one of the players on the ice. The Wings are pushing offensively hard, every slap-shot like the crack of a gunshot. Around us, fans go wild.

My hand covers my mouth. Only two minutes left, and I feel it somehow. This is the play where the Wings score. It's a shot on the net—that goes wide! Hughes gets possession again, passes to Dmitri?—

Who is smashed against the boards. I cry out, paling. He doesn't go down but manages to tip the puck back to Hughes… who scores!

The game ends. Dmitri, ever so slowly, skates to join his teammates celebrating.

Everything happens so fast after that. All I know is I'm rushing through the stands and heading straight to the dressing room. Coach Forrester is there. He nicely tells me to wait in the box. The players will see us there after they finish showering.

I don't want to leave, but I don't want to get Dmitri in trouble. I go to the box, but can't stand still. I'm chewing on the edges of my fingernails. Pretty quickly, my phone buzzes with a message from Dmitri.

DMITRI:

Princess.

I really need to get off my knee right away.

I don't want to cut your celebration short with the team, especially because tonight I'm so fucking proud of you.

The best decision this franchise could make is to hire you. You deserve to go out and have so much fun, but find me whenever you come home.

I'll be waiting for you.

I'm so sorry.

My thoughts flip to that other game. That night, he said he couldn't celebrate by inviting anyone over for a barbecue. I thought his stone-walled expression meant he hated the idea, and his glassy eyes meant he was sick of people. But what if he was hurting then, too?

I found him in the ice-bath later.

His knee.

How much does it still bother him? How much pain is he in?

I call him. He doesn't answer.

Instead of waiting around, I run straight home to find out.