61. KAVI

61

KAVI

Perry Basra has walked into the arena dressing room I'm in. My dad is short, has visibly thinning hair, and strong, stretched-out eyebrows. The hook of his nose carries weight, lean and sharp. His eyes are always assessing, snapping around the room as if downloading data.

Spotting me, his shoulders go rigid.

"Dad?" I blink. "What are you doing here?"

"Me? You shouldn't be in here."

I look at the badge hanging around my neck and the camera in my hands. "I'm allowed."

"No, Kavleen. Not around my team. I don't give you permission to click your photos around them. It's a distraction. Not important, especially right now. You need to leave."

"I think… you're in the wrong area," I say dully. I point to the sign above the door behind him. It's happened before. In large buildings, my dad gets turned around. "This is the Wings' area, not the visiting team's dressing room."

He glances backwards, then looks at me again. His cheeks deepen in color. "Right. Then. Show me the right place."

"I'm not your assistant," I remind him softly. "Not anymore."

Before he can respond, the team filters in. The Wings.

Eyebrows rise. The rival coach is in their space on one of the biggest nights of their career.

Coach Forrester appears, eyeing my dad down. "You must be so proud of her," he says, his voice mild. "She's an important asset for this franchise."

I bite my lip. Forrester's statement can either be interpreted with straightforward intentions or as a reminder that Perry Basra's own daughter switched sides.

My dad scowls. "Asset? With her camera?"

Dmitri comes to stand beside me. His face has gone stony.

"Hockey is a billion dollar sport," Tim chimes in. "Tickets used to be sold by word-of-mouth and newsletter articles until we started using sponsorship deals with companies to gain attention. Since then, hockey marketing has gotten more sophisticated than ever. Without social media and Kavi's photography contributing to this franchise, we couldn't reach new fans. She's helping capture the hearts and minds of people around the world with her work."

I aim a very relieved smile in Tim's direction. His facts are always ready.

"I see," says Perry Basra. His eyes skim over me, Dmitri, Tim, Coach Forrester, and the rest of the team. They've all subconsciously—or maybe consciously–formed a U-shaped wall behind me.

Though this silence feels like it's between me and him and no one else. My dad stares as if forced to see me differently for the first time.

I lift my chin. Face me. See me. Or don't. But I am here.

"Is there anything else you would like to say, Dad?" I ask quietly.

He steps back. "I should go."

He leaves.

Dmitri wraps his arms around me. I sink into his warmth. He rubs my back. I shiver and breathe in deeply, and then I pull back, telling him I'll be right back.

My dad's footsteps are clunkier than usual. I follow the sound.

Down the corridor, he spins to face me. Eyebrows crumple. "I don't understand what you've done," he tells me. "You moved here. You are living with some other player. And you are—" His throat shifts. "You are cheering for some other team. It makes no sense to me."

"I moved here, because I'm ninety-nine percent sure Tyler told my landlord to evict me from my apartment in Seattle?—"

"That's not?—"

"No, Dad. I'm not done." I hold my hand up. "Maybe you haven't noticed, but your precious captain spits on the ice right in front of where I'm sitting?—"

Something horrified flickers across his face.

"—as for why I'm living with Dmitri Lokhov, it's because I feel supported, loved, and respected by him. Those are things I haven't felt from you in a long time. Remember when you told me to speak to Tyler, the man manipulating me to consider open relationships? I do."

"That's not what I meant," he argues.

"No, you wanted your captain to be performing his best, because you're the head coach of a very important team, breaking very important ground because of the color of your skin—" I sniff. "The thing is, I'm so proud of that. Mom and I used to brag about you to everyone, but then I couldn't do it anymore. Not when you don't listen to your own daughter and what she also needs."

"I…" He shakes his head. "This isn't the right time to have this conversation. I'm sorry, Kavleen. I have to get back in the right mind-set. You know what this means to me."

I smile faintly at him. "Okay. I'll save you the conversation, Dad. People can say a lot of things, but their priorities speak for themselves. My priority is not listening to you speak down to me anymore." I point over my shoulder toward the dressing room. "I'm a photographer. And even if I wasn't, I am still worthy of making decisions about my future. You are, too. That means you can leave and focus on winning, like always. Please go ahead. I'm also moving on."

He turns and walks away, only to stop a few feet farther away. His voice rings out. "Kavleen, I'm glad you won't ever understand the racism I faced when I first immigrated. If you did, you would know it's why I work so hard. I had to prove to everyone that I could make it in this country. That I am a successful part of it."

I'm the first generation in my family that was born in the States. I will never experience the exact same hardships my dad has. He's probably been called many names and been counted out so many times. It hurts my soul.

"You might not think I'll ever understand you, Dad, but at least I'm willing to try. You don't try with me."

He doesn't turn around. I hear his rushed, mumbled apology as he walks away. His mind has already gone somewhere else. It's on the game.

My dad's work has morphed into his personality, eclipsing everything else. He might be hardened and hyper-value his coaching for all sorts of reasonable reasons, but it also doesn't make my own experience less true. My dad is not there for me. Not in the way I need him to be. In fact, I don't think he cares or has the capacity to learn about who I really am. He won't listen to my feelings, fears, dreams or desires. He'll always be too busy and too stuck inward to listen, focused on his own journey instead.

All I get from him is disappointment or rebuke. What he sees are my surface-level "failures" of not going to college, of breaking up with Tyler, and not being an obedient daughter who should sacrifice herself in service to her dad's wishes.

I sigh, but it's not a dejected sound. It's more of an I'm done with this exhale. I realize there won't be much more to say to my dad for a long time. He knows how I feel. Whether he changes his behavior has to be up to him.

Closure is a strange thing. It's not always unburdening, but that was a release for me.

Before reaching the Wings' dressing room, I see Dmitri.

A man is arguing with him.

He has the same golden eyes.

It's Dmitri's dad.

Grilling him about not playing in the last game.