Page 33 of Breaking Away

Heading to see a man I shouldn’t be talking to in the first place.

He is Tyler’s literal nemesis in hockey. The man currently ranked above Tyler in the league (I checked, sue me). Also, the man who gave me the cold shoulder for so many years, except one night at prom.

Too soon the vehicle stops, and I’m led down a street by a woman wearing a headset, towing my luggage behind me.

“There must be a mistake,” I tell her, struggling to keep up.

“Sorry for the hurry, Ms. Basra. We’re running behind schedule.”

“But this isn’t the airport?—”

“Right around the corner,” she interrupts. “Almost there.”

“For the record, I would not like to be murdered in an abandoned warehouse, which is where we seem to be going.”

She doesn’t laugh at my joke, which is frankly stressful. I’ve got no weapons on me. And there’s been so many times I’ve pondered self-defense classes, but never taken them. My cardio endurance is abysmal. Still, running is the best bet. I’ll find some shrubs to hide behind. Rub dirt in my face. Army-crawl to shelter. Live off the land. And?—

Who am I kidding? That sounds horrific. These people might as well have their way with me if survival camping is the alternative.

A private jet comes into view.

Utterly shocked, I can’t help but head towards it. It’s small, sleek, and luxuriously dignified. In this random plot of land, it sits on a paved runway. Squinting in the distance, some other buildings come into view. I see the main airport isn’t that far off, so I’ve not been brought to the middle of nowhere to be gruesomely ended, after all.

With no noise at all—the signpost of true wealth—a staircase descends from the jet for me to climb. A man in an orange vest takes my luggage from me. When he gestures to my tote-bag purse, I shake my head. That has my camera in it. No way am I leaving it behind anywhere again.

“Up you go, Ms. Basra,” the woman says. “You’re the last one to board.”

When I don’t move, she frets. “Please go.”

I blink rapidly at her.

Right. She means me.

Slowly, I step up. And then, before boarding, I turn around to wave at her. “Um, thank you.”

Inside the plane, even the air smells rich. Notes of oak and eucalyptus. Stepping through a curtain, I’m confronted by all sorts of men. They stop talking and stare at me.

I clutch my bag to my chest and make a noise.

It can’t be.

BUT IT IS.

The Vancouver Wings.

A gorgeous blonde man in a pink headband is the first one to speak.

“So this is who you held up the jet for, Lokhov?”

Following the direction he’s looking, I turn—and that’s when I see him, sitting with his legs spread out, hands folded on his lap like a wrathful inked king.

13

DMITRI

Kavi Basra ison the plane. Flushed cheeks, reddened nose, and eyes darting around as if she’s being kidnapped against her will. She hugs a bag I know holds her camera.

Her eyes take a while, but they find mine.

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