Page 81 of Breaking Away

My dad asked me the same question. We talk every morning where he says the same things.

Keep disciplined. Become better than your old man. You need to succeed or you’ll regret it forever, trust me.

At the end of the call, he also asks if anyone knows about my knee. I tell him they don’t. He tells me not to trust anyone with the information. Not my coach and not my team.

“I’m ready,” I tell Kavi.

It’s my standard answer, so why do I add the second part?

“But it’s not enough.”

Don’t trust anyone.

“What are you nervous about?” she asks cautiously. The strap of her top is loose. If I focus on that, on my underlying lust, the hunger of this simmering need to touch her… I can deal.

But this other thing?

Wanting to share more? It’s slippery in a way nothing else is.

“I’m not nervous,” I say, filling my fork with pasta.

“So what?”

I bring the fork over so it waits in front of her mouth. Her stomach has grumbled again. I can’t concentrate knowing she’s hungry. The sound grates my senses.

She refuses to acknowledge the food. We’re in a face-off. But my arm doesn’t falter, even when she rolls her eyes.

When her stomach grumbles for a third time, she swears. “Fine, but only if you answer properly. What is not enough?”

“The last game Hughes and I tried to coordinate. I went forward to help with an offensive push, but it didn’t work. The other team took advantage and scored.”

She doesn’t take the fork. Instead, she lifts herself over enough to take my food with her mouth. An absent gesture, done without thinking.

God have fucking mercy.I reload the fork and stick it into my mouth.

“I’m sure you two will figure it out,” she says after swallowing. “It takes practice.”

“I haven’t been practicing.”

While her eyebrows furrow, I prep another forkful and feed her.

This is a mistake. Even so, my veins hum. Her pretty plump mouth opens for me. It accepts me. My food. She’s taking me in. It… does something to me. My balls ache harder than ever before.

“What do you mean you haven’t practiced?” Kavi wonders.

When her tongue pokes out, licking the corner of her mouth, words are glue in my head.

“Forrester thinks it’s not…” I’m struggling. “… I… it’s about hockey—communication. He wants me to spend time with the team…. getting to know them personally. So we’re in sync. On the ice.”

Coach gave me that file, but he hasn’t spoken to me properly since last game’s screw-up.

“Is he wrong?” Kavi asks.

“Making friends isn’t my job, Basra.”

She laughs. “Oh, I see the issue. Dmitri Lokhov is allergic to people.”

Her head tilts.

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