Page 22 of Breaking Away

Don’t do this.

I’m about to yank the offer back when she touches me. More accurately, she stops my hand from trying to jigsaw her donut back together.

Under her touch, my wrist burns. Not that she cares. Her fingers squeeze.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she accuses.

“Because I’m some brainless hockey player clomping around the ice?”

“You don’t clomp,” is her rapid retort.

My mouth twitches. “Nobody knows how mean you are, do they?”

“I’m not mean. And maybe I’m the one who is brainless right now. What you’re saying is you want me to—what?—pretend to be with you?” She squeezes again, leveling her voice. “Is this some new dick swinging contest with Tyler?”

“Sure.” My other hand smothers hers, pulling her off me. I don’t let go, but raise an eyebrow. “How did you want to measure me for comparison, Basra? Hands or mouth?”

Her tiny gasp is satisfying. So is the color spreading across her cheeks. It takes a moment for her to snap a comeback. “A set-up for disappointment.”

“I promise you, it isn’t.”

“I can’t believe we are talking about penises in public.” She lets out an are-you-kidding-laugh. The sound is raw. Genuine. It breaks the ice for lack of a better metaphor. It shouldn’t make me feel like I’ve scored a goal, but it does.

“Apenis,” I correct. “Unfortunately, I’ve only got one.”

“Nobody knows you talk this much, do they?”

“You do.”

Instead of complaining that I’ve got her by the wrist, her fingertips toy with the edge of my watch, almost absently. “Why are you even here? Why are you listening to me talk about this? This is the most we’ve spoken since?—”

The night at prom.

Guilt passes through her gaze. “I should thank?—”

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn, letting go. My arms cross. “That’s done. Over.”

I don’t want herappreciation.

Kavi crosses her arms, mirroring me. “You are so rude sometimes.”

“What keen observational skills, Basra. Should my feelings be hurt?”

My comment earns me a glare. Good. No more crying.

“You haven’t answered me,” she says. “Why would you even want to help me with this? We’re not friends.”

Because this nasty discomfort spikes when I see these tears. Unlike the one in my knee, there’s no rehabilitating it on my own. And I’m suddenly afraid that if I do nothing, and even if I never see you again, it’ll stick around.

“Why else? Seattle is Vancouver’s biggest obstacle to winning this year. I’ll do anything to get into Smith’s head.”

“My dad is their coach,” she argues. “I’m not switching teams.”

I swipe the biggest piece of the donut off the plate and put it into my mouth. Now she’s really glaring, and all I want to do is smirk. “Nobody said anything about you wearing my jersey, Princess. Come to our next game. We’re not even playing Seattle, so your dad can’t be pissed. But if you’re seen with me, Smith will get the message. That you have options. That he should be scared of losing you. That you can do better.”

And maybe you’ll realize you don’t need to go back to that prick. And all it will have cost me is one game spent close to you. Doable. Smart, even. Whatever reaction I have to Kavi will die out once we spend any real time together.

Her phone vibrates. The screen illuminates her face when she checks it, casting light on the refined angles of her face. Not caring about privacy, I lean over and read the message.

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