Page 30 of Breaking Away

I’m breathing hard out of my nose, trying to hold back the screaming. The real problem is that she’s right. Suddenly it feels like thereareno options. My dad booked the flight for us, but I could… What? Not show up? Book another one? Sneak back to Seattle and sneak into my apartment… where Tyler could still ambush me?

No, I’m not ready!

Not when I’ve got this ugly urge to kick him, and not with everyone applying pressure from all sides, as if it’s only a matter of time before I give up and roll over. My mom’s doing it right now, my dad surely is in on this, and so are the Blades’ girlfriends and wives with their countless messages asking why I’m making such a big deal out of nothing.

Don’t they get it?

I needtimeto think. To catch my breath. To be properly pissed.

Another voice, specifically Tyler’s voice, chimes in my head.

I’m the Captain of the Seattle Blades, and you are?—

There’s a mirror in front of me. For some reason, I can’t look at my reflection. I turn around so I’m staring at the toilet. Not much better, could be used as some sort of metaphor for my state of affairs, and frankly, an overall depressing sight.

“I’m going to call us a ride-share, Kavleen,” calls out my mother, as if I need to time-manage my freakout better.

Right. Hurry it along.

What to do… What to do… What to do…?

My fingernails bite into my palms, thinking about the frilly dress. I had this image of my mother wanting to burn the world with me as soon as she heard what Tyler did. That she’d be my co-conspirator. That we’d both kick down the door to my fiancé’s penthouse, knock some shit around, then storm out in a blaze of fury. With a blunted pang in my stomach, I realize it’s what I want. Someone to tell me it’s okay to feelthisway. To be messy and mad.

So far…

Lokhov.

He’s the only one who has.

Suddenly, I recall our last conversation. The offer.

An alternative to getting on the flight back home and having to take part in Tyler’s apology tour.

My legs pace. I’m pulling my phone out and fumbling with it. He’s probably forgotten it. I’m a blip of whatever in his life. There’s no way he’d actually agree to the lunacy of this Be Seen With Me plan, even if it was his idea…

I message him fast, so I don’t chicken out.

ME

Theoretically, if I want to come to your next game, how would that happen?

I shove my phone back into the pocket of my shorts so I can’t stare at it, wondering if he’ll reply. He probably won’t. Especially considering how I ran from him last time, when he was trying to literally give me the shirt off his back.

Okay. That was a bit much.

I didn’t ask Dmitri Lokhov to strip-tease the rigidly defined V lines carved diagonally across his hips. If anything, exposing himself was reckless. That whole fight was about avoiding car accidents, not causing them. What woman could walk straight after witnessing that level of musculature? It was some Roman statuesque display, meant to be immortalized in marble and placed behind gallery ropes.

For no reason at all, I splash water on my face. At the same time, my phone vibrates—and outside my door, my mom’s telling me to rush again.

I muffle a shriek.

NO WAY.

Lokhov has responded.

It isn’t neutral or particularly polite.

LOKHOV

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