Page 60 of Breaking Away

Fortunately, I don’t last. It’s pathetic how quickly I release onto my chest.

It goes everywhere. But it’s not enough.

How can this not be enough?

Fuck.

My eyes close. Cock in hand, I’m still half-hard.

Do you regret it?

She had asked me that.

I did regret it. We were in the hallway of a club where anyone could come by. I regretted the naked panic on her face when she remembered that. How if anyone rounded the corner, they would see how wet she was. It was my responsibility to never put her in that situation, but I did.

I took it too far, teasing, mocking, and pushing her. She deserves better than to be manhandled against a wall. I should have been more careful with her.

She’s only just learned life with fuck-face Smith was a lie, that he’s been cheating on her. After all that, she deserves romance, sweetness, and a man to dote on her. To adore her and to give her everything she ever asks for.

Here I am, an emotionally clunky defenseman, dragging her to dance with me, daring her to use me, rushing her touches because I couldn’t stand not being felt by those gentle hands.

I should leave her alone. Forever.

Great fucking plan.

… If I ignore that we spoke longer today than we’ve ever talked, and I didn’t hate it. Why? I hate people.

Or that I could have danced with her in my arms far past the club closing down, when crowded places usually make my skin crawl.

She knows what happened to my mom. No one else does.

Somehow, I told her.

This compulsion for Kavi Basra is fucking incomparable. Under my skin. Inside me.

In the biggest season of my career, with my contract on the line, and an old injury re-born, I can’t have this.

How do I get rid of it?

With discipline, I vow to myself.

Forget her.

You have to.

But first, I remember the night of prom.

24

DMITRI

(Prom - many years ago.)

When I pull into the parking lot of my high school on the night of prom, I’m already checked out. The only reason I’m going to this damn party is to get away from my dad.

Push harder. Don’t lose focus now, son. You can’t.

He spent the last few hours obsessing over whether I’m doing enough to get drafted professionally. Before that, he needled me in the gym. A two-hour workout turned into a four-hour session. My muscles are so fucking fatigued, all I want to do is curl up on the couch and sleep. But I can’t do that. As soon as I hit the couch, my dad puts on reruns of past hockey games to analyze.

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