Page 28 of Breaking Away

She agreed, insisting on a weekend of fun. Fake IDs, drinking, random bars.

With how desperate I was to both escape and fix my depressed, washed-up hockey player of a dad, I agreed to come along. On our first night out, she got into an argument with a stranger. She told him that her tatted up boyfriend was going to set him straight. Before I knew it, punches were thrown. The stranger had friends. My knee got hit from behind, and I woke up the next day in the hospital with my dad looking over me.

We’ll fix up your knee, son, but you can’t let this happen again. Relationships are distractions. Men like us can only do one thing well at a time. And it’s your purpose to continue our family legacy.

He was right. My knee recovered because I dropped everything in my life except for hockey. It’s how I got signed, and it’s how I’ll get my contract renewed.

Soon, the rest of the team shows up. They gravitate around Hughes, who gets them laughing.

When it’s time to wipe down machines, I take out my headphones. Pre-practice ritual, Hughes leads a meeting. He talks about the strong right winger on the first line we’re facing tomorrow. And their new rookie who has the largest signing bonus in league history but is choking so far in his games.

“Don’t count him out,” warns Hughes. “He’s got something to prove.”

Behind us, Forrester walks into the room. He says a few words and then we head to the ice to practice.

When I’m tying up my skates, Hughes comes to stand beside me. He uses a pink headband to push back his hair before putting his helmet on. Hockey players are superstitious, following the same rituals repeatedly. But I’ve never seen him wear that.

“Gift from my niece,” he says, catching my eye. “Do you have any?”

“Nieces? No.”

“Explains a lot. Don’t worry, I’ll get her to make you one.”

“If I wear it, will you stop talking to me?”

“Nope.”

“Worth a shot.”

Hughes laughs. “You know, I think we made some progress today. Maybe you aren’t a lost cause, Lokhov. For the record, I’m here if you ever want to talk about anything, hockey or otherwise. I’m a good listener. Occasionally, I shut the fuck up.”

My knee is acting up again. What if it gets worse?

“Anything on your mind?” he asks, his characteristic grin fading away because of some expression my face is making.

Sometimes the pressure of keeping everything together chokes me.

Forrester blows the whistle, telling us to get our asses on the ice. The sound knocks common sense back into my head.

You can’t trust anyone.

I go past Hughes without answering him.

During the drills, I sneeze a few more times, discreetly, into my glove. This is happening to me because I followed Kavi Basra to her hotel in the rain yesterday. Now I’ve got a tickle in my throat and my knee is creaking like an old joint. If I don’t rest tonight after a treatment from my massage therapist, it will get worse.

That’s all I should be thinking about, but I’m not.

My mind is on her, and my body is suffering for it.

It’s a good thing she didn’t take my offer to make Smith jealous.

Kavi is the kind of woman who doesn’t ripple through a person’s life, barely leaving a trace. She wreaks havoc with her personality, her laugh, her skill at murdering donuts, the way her hair blazes in the sun and curls in the rain, how she can go from crying to blistering sarcasm to almost getting hit by a car within minutes. Tears should never zig-zag down her cheeks again.

The puck is shot my way. It bounces off my skate and goes wide because I wasn’t ready for it.

As I skate after it, I tell myself this proves it.

I can’t afford to be around Kavi Basra, and how it’s a good thing we’ll never be alone together again.

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