Page 7 of Breaking Away

But it does.

Dmitri Lokhov sends me his location. I know it’s him because he’s staying at an insanely expensive hotel.

Without changing out of my pajamas, I call a cab and make my way towards it, obviously bringing the wine along because you can’t let a good bottle go to waste.

Not when you need liquid courage before confronting the surliest, grumpiest hockey player in the league who already almost beat the crap out of your fiancé today.

3

KAVI

The security guardis kicking me out before I make it to Lokhov’s room.

Probably because I’m in a two-piece pajama set textured like a rug and wearing a backpack while everyone else glides around in formal wear. My outfit is sad cashmere (if you squint) and struggles to cover my size sixteen body. I’m pear-shaped, so my boobs are petite, but my bum and thighs strain to bust out.

Heads turn as I drag my feet, slowing the guard down. A woman in a stunning cocktail dress whispers disapproval to the coiffed man beside her.

Before we make it to the door, a curly-haired Asian man stops us. His name tag says he’s the manager.

“What’s going on?” he asks the guard.

“This homeless woman was trying to sneak upstairs!”

I gasp. “I’m nothomeless.I’m Kavi Basra!”

I’d meant to share my name as a last stand, kind of like aThis is Spartadeclaration before I’m thrown out, but the manager jerks as if he’s been slapped. “Kavleen Basra?”

Confusion and dread battle it out in my suddenly knotted stomach. I whisper, “I prefer Kavi.”

I’m not famous. My dad is the head coach of the Seattle Blades, and my fiancé is their captain, but no one has ever given my personal name any attention. I exist in the background of their success, never beside it and certainly not in front of it.

The manager’s hands jerk. “Mr. Lokhov informed us you were coming, but I didn’t think you were—” He clears his throat. “We apologize profusely for any offense, please let us make up for our mistake.”

Before I can ask questions, I’m given a complimentary bottle of expensive champagne. I store it in my backpack, only because it’s padded with enough tissue paper so the bottle won’t scratch the camera in there. After that, I’m escorted to a private elevator because Dmitri Lokhov is staying in a penthouse that isn’t accessible otherwise.

As the elevator climbs higher and higher, I’m gulping at my reflection in the mirrored glass. I’m wild-eyed, my hair is askew, and this outfit shows way more curves than I thought it did despite the dishrag material.

And then, before I know it, I’m standing in front of his door.

Right as I’m about to angrily knock, it swings open.

Dmitri Lokhov has really grown up, is my first thought as he lets me inside.

The last time I saw him this close-up was prom.

Back then he was devastatingly handsome, but in an outcast, loner kind of way. Also there was a touch of softness in the contours of his body to lull you into some slight sense of security.

A strange feeling hitches in my chest as I stare at him now.

All that softness is gone.

In front of me is a man with no hint of boyishness left. If it weren’t for his eyes, I wouldn’t think he was the same teenager who relentlessly ignored me in high school.

They are the same startling shade as ever. Not brown or black, but both and also gold when the light catches them at a certain angle.

This sounds way too posh, but poets could drawl soliloquies comparing that golden sight with the bottom rim of a full whiskey glass, set under the wonder of an unclouded sun.

Not me, though.

---