Page 4 of Breaking Away

I was waiting in the parking lot when Lokhov pulled up in his pickup truck. It was the first time I’d ever seen him dressed like that. The collared shirt made his broad shoulderslook even bigger. Not that he was a man who could ever look properly contained or civilized. The start of some tattoos marked his wrists, messy dark hair was tousled, and fitted trousers highlighted thick athlete thighs.

When he spotted me, dark eyes glared, making my pulse stumble. I thought he wouldn’t waste words on me since he never did. His gaze had raked over my face and body.

“You look like shit.”

I’d laughed in disbelief, and then curled into my stomach. My legs were shaking.

That day I really thought I’d collapse onto the pavement and hit my head because I was so sick, but it didn’t happen. I swayed but never properly fell. Strong arms had scooped me up, even as I struggled against them. “I’m about to throw up,” I’d cried out.

Lokhov took me to the bushes, gathered my hair back and held me while I emptied my stomach. Then he drove me home, carried me inside, and tucked me into my bed. My parents weren’t home. There was no one to question why a sinfully grumpy teenager was wiping my face down with a cold washcloth, muttering that everything was going to be fine. That I would be okay.

He left the glass of water and a bottle of pain relief pills behind on my nightstand before he left. Not that we ever spoke about it.

Before I could thank him, he disappeared from our small town, not bothering to come to the graduation ceremony. When I asked around, no one knew where he’d gone.

The next time I heard his name was when he’d gotten drafted into the league. Since then, I caught glimpses of Lokhov at a few of Tyler’s games when the two teams played each other. Sometimes I thought he recognized me, but when I glanced over, he was never looking.

Not that I should care. At best, he’s only ever tolerated me. At worst and more likely, I’m the scuffed dirt on his shoe.

Except today, he beat up my fiancé, but for what possible reason? I don’t know. Obviously hockey is a violent sport and fights happen all the time, but the way Lokhov punched Tyler…

It looked so personal.

Inside the arena, fans have cleared out, but I know the Blades are still here. They stay late to debrief, no matter when the game ends or what the final score is.

Normally I don’t enjoy coming here after losses. Not only because the atmosphere is heavy, but my dad, Seattle’s first ever Punjabi head coach, Pritpal (Perry) Basra, doesn’t like it when my mom or I distract him at his job.

Born in India, my dad sacrificed everything to make it to where he’s gotten. From taxi-driver to head coach, the journey has been intense. He first fell in love with hockey when he came to the States as a high school exchange student. When my mom and him immigrated here permanently, he spent most nights working as a cab driver, but also spent every free minute studying the sport. One fateful night, his customer was the assistant principal of our local high school. He took a chance and gave my dad a volunteer coaching position at the school. Under my dad’s training, the high school hockey team became the best in the state, eventually garnering national attention. It jump-started Perry Basra’s career. Since then, every day is a long one for him, full of grueling effort.

He’s strict and demanding, but those are the things that earned him this opportunity. Last year it all paid off when he led the Blades to win the Stanley Cup.

My mouth curves remembering that night.

I was so relieved and proud. It was a monumental moment for a person who looked like him, but I also thought it meant my dad would finally enjoy a regular life outside of work. Thatwe would have family dinners again and conversations over the phone that weren’t two minutes long and full of tasks assigned to me to help him and the team.

But that didn’t happen. The opposite did.

He’s pushing himself harder to set a new record and win a second year in a row.

In front of me, the dressing room door opens. My stomach squeezes as Tyler steps out, because the left side of his mouth is bruised, and he’s walking on crutches.

Harmed or unharmed, Tyler Smith is a quintessential all-American golden boy. Blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and the constant swagger of natural athleticism. Challenge him to running, he’ll win. Challenge him to crouch on asphalt and hit marbles back and forth on your knuckles with nonsensical game rules, he’ll win. He’s always just awinner.

I scramble over to him, fussing like a proper fiancée should. Obviously I’mgenuinelyconcerned, but I know how Tyler gets when he’s stubbed a toe. He requires vocal and vigorous attention.

“Babes—” (For the record, I hate this nickname, but Tyler insists on it.) “Are you okay? How are you feeling? You had me so worried,” I cry out.

He lowers himself to a bench, pushing his lip out. I sit next to him and cling like a barnacle as he refuses to make eye-contact. That tells me he’s upset, and I’ve got to cajole the reason out of him.

“What happened today?” I whisper. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

He glances down at me, eyebrows knitting together. “Babes, you should have been there for my game tonight.”

“I’m sorry I had that job?—”

A flash of something crosses his face, but then it’s gone so fast, replaced by a side-sloped smile that I might have imagined it. “Sure. I love that you take your little photos… “

“Little…” My voice is squeaky.

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