Page 27 of Breaking Away

Sleep was difficult. I couldn’t stop thinking about…

Her.

It replayed in my head, those cursed tears, and then—that car. I alternated between being sick with fury, remembering that she almost let herself get hurt… and this other sensation. One that went straight to my cock, remembering how she felt in my arms afterward. Not that I allowed myself any release.

No way will I fuck my fist to thoughts of Kavi Basra. It’s not happening.

Bringing the bar down to my chest, I sneeze. Twice.

In a blink, Hughes is there, standing above me.

His hand hovers over the bar.

“You good?” he asks.

“Go away.”

“Sick, Lokhov?”

Internally, I stiffen. If he thinks I’m sick, he’ll tell Coach. We’re flying out tomorrow for our next game, and I can’t get benched twice in a row. Dad already called this morning, warning me this is how it starts. That if I lose my spot on the first line, no one else will want me.

I listened for half an hour because lecturing makes him feel productive enough to get out of the house. To not drink.

“I’m not sick,” I sneer.

Hughes waits as if silence pressures me to keep talking.

You can’t trust him. You can’t trust anyone.

“Go away,” I order.

Hughes’ grin goes wolfish. “Repeat that a few more times. Just get your general assholery out of the way so you feel better knowing you resisted this bromance.”

This is why I don’t go to the team gym.

Setting the bar down, I get off the bench. Digging headphones out of my bag, I put them in and start bicep curls with dumbbells. It doesn’t take long for a sheen of sweat to cover my skin. My tattoos contract as I work my muscles over.

Hughes pulls out a skipping rope, leaving me alone—for ten minutes. He’s doing interval cardio. Between sets, he badgers me with questions I pretend not to hear.

“If you’re not sick, you must have partied last night. Which club?”

Hughes skips again before talking again.

“Blondes, brunettes, or redheads? Me, I loveallwomen, alone and in multiples, but I should know my best friend’s preferences, just in case.”

More skipping.

“Need a wingman? I could tag along. The whole team could. Since you never come out with us, maybe we should go out with you.”

The rope blurs. Ignoring it and him, I turn to face the wall.

“Actually, it’s a great plan,” says Hughes, shouting louder. “With your not-speaking and the I-hate-everything attitude, I’ll score more. Women will wantyouto fuck off, and formeto fuck them. It’s perfect.”

Switching to rock music, I turn the volume up another notch. My jaw pulses as I remind myself I haven’t sacrificed everything to become a professional hockey player to make friends.

I know what happens when you let people influence you. You end up on the floor of a bar with your knee twisted the wrong way, alone because your not-girlfriend started a fight, but ran off after you got hurt.

From the start, I told Sam we were casual.

---