Page 137 of Breaking Away

“You came here early. I thought we were going to drive over together.”

“Oh. I spoke to Tim. He, um, offered me a job as the social media manager. I kind of—no, I really do—want to take it. I’m thinking I will, which means I’m probably here more perman?—”

Dmitri drops his bag. He grabs me by the waist and spins me around. There’s no misinterpreting his reaction. It doesn’t matter if his baseline expression isgrump, because I can tell.His eyes are glued to me, staring unbelievingly. He tucks his face into the crook of my neck. I feel it. His long exhale.

When I’m set down, his expression is one I’ve never seen before on him. The closest word I can come up with isbeaming.

“Stay to watch the game?” he says, more pleading than offering.

“I would love to.”

Pretty soon, I’m in my usual seat in the arena, wearing a jersey with LOKHOV written on the back. He very bossily dressed me in it a few minutes ago.

Right before the game starts, Dmitri skates over.

He waits.

I press my palm against the glass. His glove comes up and taps the other side. That tiniest smile pulls his mouth to the side.

Myheart. It’s rushing away from me as if tethered to him.

He doesn’t have girlfriends, I remind myself. And I just came out of a long-term clusterfuck of an engagement. It’s not—we’re not—we haven’t talked about anything serious like that.

The whistle blows and the game starts. Now that I’ve learned about his leg, I notice so much more. The shadow of a wince, him clenching his jaw harder, and how he favors his unscarred knee when stick-handling the puck. His cheeks are bright with exertion, dark hair is dripping, and yet—he keeps going, skating harder and harder.

My hands thump against the glass until they’re sore. It’s fun and completely terrifying at the same time to have a person you care about give it their all, where blood and teeth can scatter across the ice at any time.

The game spills to overtime, four-on-four. Dmitri is one of the players on the ice. The Wings are pushing offensively hard, every slap-shot like the crack of a gunshot. Around us, fans go wild.

My hand covers my mouth. Only two minutes left, and I feel it somehow. This is the play where the Wings score. It’s a shot on the net—that goes wide! Hughes gets possession again, passes to Dmitri?—

Who is smashed against the boards. I cry out, paling. He doesn’t go down but manages to tip the puck back to Hughes… who scores!

The game ends. Dmitri, ever so slowly, skates to join his teammates celebrating.

Everything happens so fast after that. All I know is I’m rushing through the stands and heading straight to the dressing room. Coach Forrester is there. He nicely tells me to wait in the box. The players will see us there after they finish showering.

I don’t want to leave, but I don’t want to get Dmitri in trouble. I go to the box, but can’t stand still. I’m chewing on the edges of my fingernails. Pretty quickly, my phone buzzes with a message from Dmitri.

DMITRI:

Princess.

I really need to get off my knee right away.

I don’t want to cut your celebration short with the team, especially because tonight I’m so fucking proud of you.

The best decision this franchise could make is to hire you. You deserve to go out and have so much fun, but find me whenever you come home.

I’ll be waiting for you.

I’m so sorry.

My thoughts flip to that other game. That night, he said he couldn’t celebrate by inviting anyone over for a barbecue. I thought his stone-walled expression meant he hated the idea, and his glassy eyes meant he was sick of people. But what if he was hurting then, too?

I found him in the ice-bath later.

His knee.

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