Page 2 of Breaking Away

Right now, the right winger inches forward as I stand still. I won’t make the first move. I can’t afford to get hurt in a senseless fight, and they can’t afford a power play with their score. We’re winning one to zero.

Seattle’s captain, Tyler Smith, skates over and whispers something to make his player back off. I don’t hear them, but I see Smith shoot me a smirk as he skates beside me.

This entire game has been full of trash talk. I expect more digs about my father and how I’m going to end up like him. A washed up has-been from Latvia who never finished his first season, let alone ever won the Cup.

But Smith doesn’t talk about my dad. Or me.

“Are you missing her in the stands?” he whispers. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you notice her when she comes to my games.”

I freeze.

Smith laughs. “You wish she was watching you instead of me?”

“Stop.” The word is torn from my mouth and Smith’s smirk turns into a shit-eating grin.

We both know I’ve let nothing get visibly under my skin before, but now I’ve just reacted.

“Do you know the best thing about going home to her, Lokhov?”

I’m grinding my teeth so hard that my jaw locks.

I’m Vancouver’s Wall of Ice. My head coach’s eyes are on me, his expression indiscernible. My teammates are also watching, but keeping their distance, out of hearing range. They are not worried. In every other situation, I skip the bullshit and skate away. Every single time.

This is the last thing I need right now.

You don’t care. You don’t care. You don’t fucking care.

Smith drops one last thing before he skates away, and it breaks a leash I didn’t know existed inside me.

“The benefit is that her fat lips sure know how to suck. If you know what I mean.”

For the first time in my career, I drop my gloves first.

2

KAVI

I’m takingphotos of screaming children, wearing an itchy socialite dress, and heels that strangle my toes.

“Thank you for doing this,” says Anna, the wife whose anniversary party this is. “I know you don’t have to be here. You could never work again if you wanted.”

She giggles.

My lips strain into a pageant smile. It’s a joke I’ve gotten a lot, especially after my dad went from struggling taxi driver to volunteer high-school coach to now making millions as the head coach of the Seattle Blades. Not to mention how I’m the fiancée of their captain, Tyler Smith… who also makes millions.

Based on those two facts, I’m filthy rich.

But if you’re talking about me personally, it’s a different story. I make abysmal money from my photography and average “wages” that my dad sporadically deposits into my account for the work I do for him. Whether that means arranging team hotel stays and flights, babysitting pets when no one else can watch them, coordinating logistics when players have last-minute change of plans, researching any topic my dad sends me to look up, booking his appointments, travel, schedule…

The list goes on.

For Tyler, I help by cleaning, cooking, overseeing his assistants…

It’s the career of a woman who couldn’t make it on her own, but is the daughter of a famous hockey coach and the soon-to-be wife of a famous hockey player. I should be so grateful.

“Thank you for hiring me,” I tell Anna.

She waves away my appreciation. “Anything for your mom!”

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