Page 80 of Breaking Away

Instead of answering me, he does it. He uses the alcohol wipe. I gasp. It does sting for a second, but then Dmitri is blowing on the hurt-that-is-not-really-a-hurt, before peeling off the bandaid and sticking it on.

My throat is parched dry. I’m flushing and ogling his mouth—which I need to stop doing. And the way my body is squirming is also inappropriate. Quickly, I shift until my leg comes off his lap, and we’re sitting side-by-side.

“How?” I ask. “How are we going to survive living together?”

It was supposed to be a hypothetical question I whisper to myself in my head, but I’ve said it out loud.

Dmitri crosses his arms. “By avoiding each other.”

“Yup. Great start.”

33

DMITRI

A few days later,I’m reading the file Coach Forrester sent me, titled The Road to the Play-Offs. It’s twenty-pages long and covers offensive defending. He describes how I need to play differently, strategically partnering with our offense to win the Cup.

Or else.

He hasn’t written that, but it’s implied. I know what’s at risk.

Last year we made it to the finals and had a shot at the Cup until the Blades bulldozed us. This year with our new roster, we have everything we need to bring it home. Victory is ours, within reach. All I have to do is play at the top of my game. Once I do that, the Wings won’t trade me. I’ll stay in Vancouver. My dad will be happy. Proud. Better.

Needing to eat, I go to the kitchen.

Fuck, she’s there.

Kavi spots me and rushes to close her laptop. “Are you heading out?”

“Coach canceled practice, so we can rest before tomorrow’s game.” My gaze moves between the camera and her laptop. “Editing?”

“Photos from the last two gigs I did, so I can send them over and get paid.”

The kitchen island separates us. She’s on a stool on the other side, fully dressed. This was bound to happen again, us running into each other.

I tell myself I can handle it. I need food.

Opening the fridge, I consider different meals prepped in containers. Precisely measured macros delivered by a weekly food service. Turning my baseball cap backwards, I grab the pasta.

Behind me, Kavi makes a low, tortured noise. My balls ache. Shit, I’m hardening. Why did she make that sound? What did I do?

I lecture my dick to fucking behave while heating up the food. When it’s ready, deliciousness wafts through the kitchen.

Her stomach rumbles. She mutters a swear, blushing.

I grab a fork and slide the plate to her. She doesn’t grab it.

“Should I order you something else?” I ask.

“No. That’s your meal, not mine.”

For some reason, I sit across from her. This will be quick. I’m funneling pasta into my mouth.

Silence stretches, making Kavi huff. Maybe she feels obligated to say something because she’s living here, even though I told her the place was hers to use, no matter what.

“Ready for your game tomorrow?” she finally asks, opting for small-talk.

Am I ready?

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