Page 92 of Breaking Away

Pink Headband notices. “Cold?” He roots around a duffle bag. “This is clean,” he says, pulling out a jersey.

Before I can consider it, I’m physically removed from Pink Headband’s vicinity. Two palms on my waist have carted me away.

When I’m placed down on my feet, Lokhov’s nose comes down to mine. “Wait here.”

He disappears and then returns, holding a different jersey in his hands. His number.

“What’s this for?” I ask, looking him straight in the eyes.

“Arms up.”

“I’m not that cold,” I hedge.

“What if you get cold later, Basra? I’m not taking the risk.” His chest crowds me. “You forgot to bring a sweater. This will keep you warm.”

“His jersey was made of the same material,” I note, unable to help myself. Lokhov is being pushy and that peacefully blank expression of his? It’s gone.

He rolls his mouth. We went from no grumpiness to maximum thunder-cloud energy. “Mine is better.”

“Let me guess. Because it’s yours?”

He brushes a knuckle over my arm. Goosebumps have multiplied. “Arms up, Princess. Now.”

My core tightens. Spasms. “And if I don’t?”

“I won’t be able to focus on the game. Do you want us to lose?”

He’s exaggerating. He must be. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Want to risk it?” There’s a short pause. “Do it for me.”

How can I keep resisting this man? My defenses aren’t what they should be.

I lift my arms. He opens the jersey and lowers it on me. When it drops to below my waist, his hand teases out the camera that’s around my neck and lifts it through the neckline. His jersey is so big it fits through. The way he settles it against me, so carefully putting it back into place, has my pulse kick. A few times. His forefinger and thumb move to the sleeve, pinching the number. Twelve.His number.

Dmitri Lokhov won’t meet my eyes, but inhales an uneven breath. Then he storms away.

The game is starting.

38

KAVI

When most ofthe dressing room empties, a man wearing a badge comes up to me. “I don’t remember a new social media manager starting.”

I’m gulping. “I’m not one.”

“But she can be,” Sonya interjects, coming to stand beside me. “Do you have one for today?”

The man taps his chin. “We’ve been meaning to hire one.”

“Give her a chance,” begs Sonya.

He glances at my camera.

That’s the problem. It makes me look so much better than what I am. Like if you have the right equipment, you must be great.

My throat burns.

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