Page 44 of Breaking Away

Sonya instantly scowls. “Please. That slutty man obsesses over anyone with a vagina. I hate his type. How about you? And number twelve?”

I laugh—too loudly. “That—we’ve never—impossible.” Inside me, a flood-line of warmth rises, and my back tingles. “Lokhov hates my ex. That’s the only reason he agreed to fly me out to this game. Trust me, I’m not his type. There’s nothing like that going on between us.”

My camera is ready. It finds Dmitri. He’s?—

… not skating like he normally does. There’s a curious tumble in my belly, watching him. Instinctively, I’m shooting photos and it’s like every frame is more intense than the last. Gone is his meticulousness. He’s not a net-front defenseman right now.

He’s stolen the puck, flying forward. Suddenly, my heart races. Another player crashes him into the boards, but he doesn’t lose possession. Still, I cry out a noise.Is he hurt? That sounded so painful!

When he gets checked again, I surge to my feet. Everyone in the stands is getting up. It’s the last few deafening minutes of the game. I’m glued to my camera, following Dmitri. He’s the only one I see.

He makes a lane for himself, moves in tandem with Pink Headband as if they are reading each other’s minds, penetrating the offensive zone and Dmitri?—

Scores!

Horns blare. The crowd boos.

Dmitri turns around and skates in a straight line directly….

To me.

Soon his face fills my camera. Gulping hard, I lower it. Heat pools low in my belly. My heart pumps madly.

Golden eyes. There’s no obvious light reflecting into them, but the ice and the glass must be working together for his eyes to lighten to that color.

Seated behind me is a group of young women. They wave their hands frantically; call out his name; almost climb over their seats.

One wonders, “Is he looking at me?”

He’s not. His eyes haven’t left mine. I know because I can’t move, pinned down by their consuming intensity. Underneath his helmet, dark strands of hair stick to his forehead. Cheeks are flushed from the crazy God-like cardio he’s put his body through. I always knew Lokhov was broad-shouldered and tall, but wearing his hockey gear makes him feel twice the size.

Even drenched in sweat, I hate to admit, he’s the most exquisite man I’ve ever seen.

Coach yells out his name, telling him to return to the bench.

It’s like he doesn’t hear him, the way he’s not moving.

Without meaning to, I put my palm against the glass. His eyes lower to my hand. His glove comes up. He taps the other side.

His mouth does it again. That smallest slope to one side.

And then, finally, he turns around and skates away.

Almost tripping backward, I fall down into my seat.

Sonya whistles. “Oh man, you’re in trouble.”

17

DMITRI

A dull throbin my knee gets worse. It takes effort not to walk any differently, when Forrester pulls me to the side after the game.

His expression tells me nothing, but the dread in my gut knows what’s coming. What I did on the ice today was out of formation. Yes, I scored, but I went completely rogue to do it.

All because Kavi Basra was watching me.

Fuck.

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