Page 52 of Breaking Away

Dammit.

“Yeah right,” I mutter. “You’re Dmitri Lokhov.”

“And you’re Kavi Basra,” he says, as if that means something.

His hand spreads on my back, and before I know it, I’ve fallen backwards. Except, I haven’t really fallen. I float an inch from the ground, reliant on his strength to hold me. And it does.He’s a hockey player that can probably bench me if he wanted to.

“You’re showing off,” I say breathlessly, accusing him.

Gold eyes narrow. “Stop looking at me like I’ll drop you. I would never drop you.”

“I’m—I’m dizzy.” My heart is a trapped rabbit. There’s that top-of-a-roller coaster-drop feeling mixed in with… other things.

His arms lift me. I’m tucked against this chest again, which shouldn’t smell so good, but it does. When he loosens his holdenough to dance again, I don’t step away. I find I can’t. My head turns to the side. There’s a strain in my lungs as if I haven’t got my breath back. Around us, I notice mouths making out, crotches gone back to grinding, and someone seems perilously close to dry-humping to completion in that one corner.

“Do you miss the lessons with your dad?” I blurt out to say something.

Peeking upwards, I catch his brief-almost-smile fade. “No.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

We’re swaying, side-to-side. All complicated moves have been reduced to this. My arms slip around his neck. His arms go around my waist.

He exhales.

I feel that, too.

“I miss one thing about the lessons,” he admits reluctantly. “Teaching me how to dance was the only time my dad talked about my mom.”

“Oh. You, um, never mentioned your mom. Even back in high school.”

Come to think of it, I know little about Dmitri’s family. Despite how we lived in a small town together, his personal life was a mystery. He never talked to me about it, obviously, but I’ve also never overheard him open up to anyone else about it.

All I know is Lokhov came to school, ignored the fact that I existed, played hockey with Tyler, and sometimes used to have a girl draped over his lap in the cafeteria during our final year. And also—prom…

“When my dad got scouted to play in America, he brought me with him,” says Dmitri, his voice low and bland. “Mom was supposed to come, too. But by the time her paperwork got processed, she had passed away. Car accident.”

Slivers criss-cross the surface of my heart.I’m so sorry.

The heel of my palm comes down and rubs the center of his chest.

Golden eyes snap down at where I’m touching him. “You don’t—stop that.”

I pull away, but then a knuckle goes under my chin. “Enough about me,” he growls, as if boarding a door shut. “What made you change your mind?”

“About?”

“Today. Coming to my game.”

He’s finally asking why I’m here. Openly wondering why I texted him to come to his game in the first place. Does it really matter to him?

My mouth gathers into a weak smile. “To pour fuel on the fire of my life. Why else would I ask a man like you for a favor?”

“Why else indeed.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Maybe a taunt.

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