Page 91 of Breaking Away

Before I can argue, I’m surrounded by players. They pose, and everyone is waiting for me to start—and for some reason, I look at Lokhov.

My heart staggers to a stop, then restarts, pounding quicker.

Golden irises.

His eyes aren’t closed anymore.

This pull in my chest is inexorable. Everything tingles, buzzing as if connected to an outlet.

Lokhov’s eyes visibly drag to my hands, which are twisting around each other.

He stands.

And now I’m in front of him, not sure when I started moving in the first place. “Did you hear what…I’m supposed to do?”

He nods.

“I’m not—I don’t think your team should trust me with this?—”

“If you do it, I’ll give you something.”

His low, murmuring voice is obscene. So much gravel.

“W-hat?” I stammer.

He bends, whispering in my ear. “I’ll invite them all over, regardless if we win or not tonight. Don’t you want to see me suffer like that?”

I stifle a gasp. He would hate that. Loathe it, even.

But he’s offering this for me. As encouragement. As long as I step outside my comfort zone and try as well. Can I do it? Can I at least try?

“I—Okay,” I whisper.

Lokhov is looking at me like he believes I can do this. The intensity of it makes me shiver. I’m propelled—to try.

Cradling my camera, my jitters bounce as I turn it on, remembering the first time I took pictures with it. Of food, weather, the sky, cars driving on the street…my parents.

Capturing them is what made something slot into place. Because of my camera, my dad got a different gift for his birthday that year. I still remember how it actually made him smile. It was a portrait of him, black and white, so stoic and strong.

He hung it in his office.

The only part of me that makes it in there.

In the dressing room, the camera goes in front of my face. I’m not invisible anymore, but I’m also not exposed. It’s me behind the lens, safely hidden. Suddenly, the room feels steadier, like I can navigate it without tripping over my feet.

Quinn shows up, flexing his biceps. Matt shows off his missing teeth. Emmad sprawls like he’s on the Titanic.

It takes a while before cliché poses morph into something deeper. I catch blurring limbs, an upturned mouth, the intimacy of an arm squeeze, downcast eyes, curled lips, a hand across the forehead… Is it nerves or anticipation? Someone prays. Snorts. Skates glint as they get sharpened. Another player wrestles a stubborn shoelace.

The tension in my shoulders melts. I float and disassociate into this nebulous state of being. Time means nothing. My camera grows its own personality, taking over. All I can do is listen and shoot.

When my lens passes over Lokhov, it won’t move on right away. His eyes have closed, but the line of his jaw undulates, as if he’s struggling to find that meditative state again. A wrinkle between his eyebrows is captured. So is the collar of his shirt where the stamp of a tattoo edges out. His Adam’s apple is prominent and my camera loves it. Almost as much as his hands. Rough, wide, calloused. I peel myself away when their coach gathers everyone for a pregame speech. It’s short and pointed.

The bottom line is:

Win.

The intensity makes me shiver.

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