Please note: some details of professional hockey have been modified for your reading enjoyment. To check the content warnings for this book, please visit www.sookhkaur.com/content-warnings/

DMITRI

“Lokhov. I need a word.”

We’re minutes away from skating into the rink and the Vancouver Wings new head coach pulls me to the side. My first thought is that he knows about my knee. My face doesn’t move an inch, but my stomach bottoms. With my contract up for renewal this year, I’ve got everything to lose if anyone finds out how much it’s been hurting.

An injured hockey player isn’t worth keeping on the team, especially for the kind of money I’m being paid. I’ll get traded if anyone finds out, or worse. It could end my career, and you don’t have to look beyond my dad to see what happens then.

He used to be the best left winger in the league. A first-round draft pick, recruited from Latvia. Every sportscaster predicted he’d be a Hall of Famer. They said it after every game he played. Ivans Lokhov is destined for greatness…

Until his leg broke on the ice, damaged irreparably.

Now, my dad is a shining example of what happens when you lose the only thing you’re good at. Bitter resentment, seesawing depression, and a dependency on alcohol.

The only thing he’s properly living for now is me. I’m his last hope. It’s my job to carry on the family legacy and to do that, he’s made sure I can’t fail. We’ve dedicated my whole life to my career.

Wings coach Tuck Forrester puts a hand on my arm. He’s the youngest coach in the league and one who has never played professional hockey. He’s got a Doctorate in Psychology and started his career working with juniors in his hometown.

Men like him have something to prove, especially since he was hired because we fumbled the playoff finals last season. We lost every game in that series. The Seattle Blades crushed us and now we’re facing them again tonight.

“I heard you used to go to high school with the Blades’ captain,” Coach says, assessing me with a drilling stare. “Any bad blood between you two? I’m asking because this rivalry is heated enough, and I need to count on you to play clean.”

He doesn’t know about my knee.

My head drops, muscles loosening with relief… until his question registers in my head.

“No issue,” I say, my voice a hoarse rasp.

Knowing I’m not a man who talks much, Forrester lets me go. As soon as my blades hit the ice, my mind begins blanking. Who cares about the Blades captain, Tyler Smith? His smarmy face blends into the faces of his other teammates that I also don’t give a fuck about.

As long as…

I flick my eyes around, searching the stands. It’s early, so there’s not many people I need to scan. It’s always the same section. The same approximate spot.

She’s not there.

My breath exhales in a measured rush. And that last bit of punishing tension in my gut lifts. A dull roar of blood pumps through my veins as I stretch out beside my teammates. They know not to disturb me. Staying isolated is how I keep my edge razor sharp. I’m always alone. It’s how it has to be.

The game starts with the other team winning the draw. Soon their cocky right winger rushes toward our net, thinking he’s about to score. He doesn’t see me coming behind him. My stick blurs forward, nicks the puck from him, and flicks it back into the neutral zone.

Over and over again, I do the same maneuver. That’s ten times now I’ve stripped him.

Late in the third period, his snarl fills my vision. I give him no reaction, even as satisfaction hums through me.

The right winger’s throat bobbles.

I’ve been told the flatness of my eyes is terrifying, especially when you pair it with my hulking six-foot-four frame and a mouth that never smiles.

Sensing a fight, fans scream louder. Referees pinch in from both sides.

The rest of my team gathers, ready to back me. On the other side, the Seattle Blade players surge together. Our rivalry is a pot waiting to boil over. It’s full of heavy hits and trash talk, but no one’s gotten first blood yet this season.

My knee throbs at the thought of a fight.

Seven years ago, the damage to my knee would’ve killed my hockey dreams if my dad hadn’t forced me back together again. Even when I tried giving up, he wouldn’t let me. We rehabilitated the injury and practiced drills all day, every day. Most nights I went to sleep tasting iron and pain.

Others might call his methods grueling, but my old man didn’t want my career to end up like his. And for that, I owe him.

Right now, the right winger inches forward as I stand still. I won’t make the first move. I can’t afford to get hurt in a senseless fight, and they can’t afford a power play with their score. We’re winning one to zero.

Seattle’s captain, Tyler Smith, skates over and whispers something to make his player back off. I don’t hear them, but I see Smith shoot me a smirk as he skates beside me.

This entire game has been full of trash talk. I expect more digs about my father and how I’m going to end up like him. A washed up has-been from Latvia who never finished his first season, let alone ever won the Cup.

But Smith doesn’t talk about my dad. Or me.

“Are you missing her in the stands?” he whispers. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you notice her when she comes to my games.”

I freeze.

Smith laughs. “You wish she was watching you instead of me?”

“Stop.” The word is torn from my mouth and Smith’s smirk turns into a shit-eating grin.

We both know I’ve let nothing get visibly under my skin before, but now I’ve just reacted.

“Do you know the best thing about going home to her, Lokhov?”

I’m grinding my teeth so hard that my jaw locks.

I’m Vancouver’s Wall of Ice. My head coach’s eyes are on me, his expression indiscernible. My teammates are also watching, but keeping their distance, out of hearing range. They are not worried. In every other situation, I skip the bullshit and skate away. Every single time.

This is the last thing I need right now.

You don’t care. You don’t care. You don’t fucking care.

Smith drops one last thing before he skates away, and it breaks a leash I didn’t know existed inside me.

“The benefit is that her fat lips sure know how to suck. If you know what I mean.”

For the first time in my career, I drop my gloves first.

KAVI

I’m taking photos of screaming children, wearing an itchy socialite dress, and heels that strangle my toes.

“Thank you for doing this,” says Anna, the wife whose anniversary party this is. “I know you don’t have to be here. You could never work again if you wanted.”

She giggles.

My lips strain into a pageant smile. It’s a joke I’ve gotten a lot, especially after my dad went from struggling taxi driver to volunteer high-school coach to now making millions as the head coach of the Seattle Blades. Not to mention how I’m the fiancée of their captain, Tyler Smith… who also makes millions.

Based on those two facts, I’m filthy rich.

But if you’re talking about me personally, it’s a different story. I make abysmal money from my photography and average “wages” that my dad sporadically deposits into my account for the work I do for him. Whether that means arranging team hotel stays and flights, babysitting pets when no one else can watch them, coordinating logistics when players have last-minute change of plans, researching any topic my dad sends me to look up, booking his appointments, travel, schedule… 

The list goes on.

For Tyler, I help by cleaning, cooking, overseeing his assistants…

It’s the career of a woman who couldn’t make it on her own, but is the daughter of a famous hockey coach and the soon-to-be wife of a famous hockey player. I should be so grateful.

“Thank you for hiring me,” I tell Anna.

She waves away my appreciation. “Anything for your mom!”

Right. I was only hired because Anna is my mother’s best friend’s daughter. Not to mention there’s a second photographer with proper credentials walking around and taking photos. But only so not a moment of the party is missed, Anna told me when he showed up.

Sure. Okay. My paper-thin confidence knows better, though.

I’m a self-taught photographer who can’t land a real job on her own. My parents and fiancé tell me this is a fun hobby, as if they are so proud of me for keeping myself occupied when I’m not busy being their daughter and a perfect partner.

I should do more, I keep telling them, but my mom doesn’t agree, because I’m perfect as I am.

My dad reminds me that my grades didn’t get me into college. That if I didn’t excel academically in high school, college won’t suddenly turn me into a scholar, or doctor, or engineer, or lawyer, or any of the careers he thinks are worth it. Basically anything where facts matter and money is guaranteed.

He’s… not wrong about me not excelling. My brain is a water slide when it comes to memorizing information. I’ve tried, but I can’t fix it. There are days when it feels like my mind is wired in a completely different way than those around me. Historically speaking, subjects like math and science were always my worst marks.

Back at the party, I get on my knees to get a shot of a toddler booping noses with a Yorkshire Terrier who has been terrorizing ankles around the bar. I also capture an old man in a three-piece suit shaking his cane as he rants. Rich people are stuffy, but I’m sneaking in moments of them not being so stuffy.

Still, my palms sweat as I take more shots from this angle. What was I thinking, agreeing to do this?

Everyone will laugh when they compare my work with the professional’s pictures. Maybe I should have listened to Tyler.

He’d whined that I was missing his game today, and almost convinced me to quit this gig—until my mother took him aside and whispered things I’d overheard the gist of. She said working at Anna’s party is a great learning experience for when I become a wife like Anna, throwing parties for my own family.

I get up and walk past the finger food. Wasabi-flavored okra, pickled shallots, foie gras foam. Not a sausage wrapped in pastry in sight. A real crime, if you ask me. There’s also an entire table of desserts laid out, but parents are keeping their kids away as if afraid to ruin the display. Passing by, I stuff a cookie into my mouth, covering myself with a fake cough.

While I shake off the crumbs, Anna and her husband speak to their guests, getting ready to cut the cake. She’s tucked into his arm and he’s delivering a toast, talking about how all his accomplishments wouldn’t be possible if he didn’t have his wife in the background. That his dreams are now their dreams, but they wouldn’t at all be possible without Anna focusing all her attention on their marriage and home. That he’s able to be the man he is because of her sacrifices. Anna dabs her eyes as if she’s about to cry. Then she cups her belly, saying they have even happier news. Anna isn’t only the best wife, she’s about to become the best mother.

People clap. My pageant smile threatens to fall and not because the other photographer is pushing me out of the way.

It’s because I’m looking at an image of my future, one where I’ll be the supporter to my famous hockey husband, and my steps are dragging.

Nonetheless, I keep shooting pictures, forcing myself to remember I’m lucky. At the end of this hockey season, I’m marrying someone who loves me. Tyler is my high school sweetheart and also very much out of my league.

This isn’t a matter of low confidence over looks, but facts about skills. Talent. Success.

Tyler was our high school’s prom king. He picked me, a girl not smart enough to be typically nerdy or sporty enough to be his athletic equal. The only reason we started dating is because I lingered around jocks since my dad was their coach. Somehow, we got close.

And now, as the Blades captain, he’s near the top of his career, and I’m still in the backseat of mine, wondering how to crawl to reach my steering wheel. There’s an anxious buzzing in my head when I think about my future…

No, it’s a buzzing in my pocket.

Tyler is calling me. I realize his game must be over. Since I’ve been pushed to the fringes of this party and nobody looks like they want me here, I slip away to answer the video call.

On my phone, a bloodied face fills the screen.

* * *

I rush to the arena because my fiancé lost a fight. That’s not what he told me, but as soon as we hung up, I looked it up online. He definitely lost. And the situation is already viral.

1 On 1 Brawl Erupts Between Vancouver Defenseman Dmitri Lokhov and Seattle Captain Tyler Smith.

I watched the video three times, not understanding it. Tyler was talking to Lokhov and then skated away… only for Lokhov to go after him?

What could they have been talking about? What put that furious look on Dmitri Lokhov’s face?

My car-share pulls up to the arena, and I shiver as I get out. Not because of the damp humidity thickening the air as purple storm clouds broil overhead. No, I’m remembering the last time Lokhov and I had a conversation.

We went to the same high school, but weren’t close. He was on the same hockey team as Tyler, but never paid me any attention. His flat eyes always skipped over me, disinterested and cold, like I was an irritating nuisance who shouldn’t be allowed around the team.

Not that his silent, grumpy, intimidating attitude made him less attractive to admirers. More than half the student population wanted to date or fuck him, and I swear he got into a relationship with…Sam, was it?… just to stop the harassment. Or maybe he really loved her? I don’t know.

What I remember is the night of prom. I was so sick, I couldn’t leave my house. But I didn’t want Tyler to miss out on anything because he was destined to be crowned prom king, so I insisted he go with his friends.

Later, in a feverish-haze and pumped full of medicine, I found the energy to pull on a dress and wear some makeup, so I could show up to see my boyfriend’s big moment. But when I got to the gym, Tyler wasn’t happy. My face was sweaty, and I looked one drink away from hurling. He called me a cab, saying he didn’t want to worry about me while he was having a good time, but that he loved me and I looked so beautiful even like this.

I was waiting in the parking lot when Lokhov pulled up in his pickup truck. It was the first time I’d ever seen him dressed like that. The collared shirt made his broad shoulders look even bigger. Not that he was a man who could ever look properly contained or civilized. The start of some tattoos marked his wrists, messy dark hair was tousled, and fitted trousers highlighted thick athlete thighs.

When he spotted me, dark eyes glared, making my pulse stumble. I thought he wouldn’t waste words on me since he never did. His gaze had raked over my face and body.

“You look like shit.”

I’d laughed in disbelief, and then curled into my stomach. My legs were shaking.

That day I really thought I’d collapse onto the pavement and hit my head because I was so sick, but it didn’t happen. I swayed but never properly fell. Strong arms had scooped me up, even as I struggled against them. “I’m about to throw up,” I’d cried out.

Lokhov took me to the bushes, gathered my hair back and held me while I emptied my stomach. Then he drove me home, carried me inside, and tucked me into my bed. My parents weren’t home. There was no one to question why a sinfully grumpy teenager was wiping my face down with a cold washcloth, muttering that everything was going to be fine. That I would be okay.

He left the glass of water and a bottle of pain relief pills behind on my nightstand before he left. Not that we ever spoke about it.

Before I could thank him, he disappeared from our small town, not bothering to come to the graduation ceremony. When I asked around, no one knew where he’d gone.

The next time I heard his name was when he’d gotten drafted into the league. Since then, I caught glimpses of Lokhov at a few of Tyler’s games when the two teams played each other. Sometimes I thought he recognized me, but when I glanced over, he was never looking.

Not that I should care. At best, he’s only ever tolerated me. At worst and more likely, I’m the scuffed dirt on his shoe.

Except today, he beat up my fiancé, but for what possible reason? I don’t know. Obviously hockey is a violent sport and fights happen all the time, but the way Lokhov punched Tyler…

It looked so personal.

Inside the arena, fans have cleared out, but I know the Blades are still here. They stay late to debrief, no matter when the game ends or what the final score is.

Normally I don’t enjoy coming here after losses. Not only because the atmosphere is heavy, but my dad, Seattle’s first ever Punjabi head coach, Pritpal (Perry) Basra, doesn’t like it when my mom or I distract him at his job. 

Born in India, my dad sacrificed everything to make it to where he’s gotten. From taxi-driver to head coach, the journey has been intense. He first fell in love with hockey when he came to the States as a high school exchange student. When my mom and him immigrated here permanently, he spent most nights working as a cab driver, but also spent every free minute studying the sport. One fateful night, his customer was the assistant principal of our local high school. He took a chance and gave my dad a volunteer coaching position at the school. Under my dad’s training, the high school hockey team became the best in the state, eventually garnering national attention. It jump-started Perry Basra’s career. Since then, every day is a long one for him, full of grueling effort.

He’s strict and demanding, but those are the things that earned him this opportunity. Last year it all paid off when he led the Blades to win the Stanley Cup.

My mouth curves remembering that night.

I was so relieved and proud. It was a monumental moment for a person who looked like him, but I also thought it meant my dad would finally enjoy a regular life outside of work. That we would have family dinners again and conversations over the phone that weren’t two minutes long and full of tasks assigned to me to help him and the team.

But that didn’t happen. The opposite did.

He’s pushing himself harder to set a new record and win a second year in a row.

In front of me, the dressing room door opens. My stomach squeezes as Tyler steps out, because the left side of his mouth is bruised, and he’s walking on crutches.

Harmed or unharmed, Tyler Smith is a quintessential all-American golden boy. Blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and the constant swagger of natural athleticism. Challenge him to running, he’ll win. Challenge him to crouch on asphalt and hit marbles back and forth on your knuckles with nonsensical game rules, he’ll win. He’s always just a winner.

I scramble over to him, fussing like a proper fiancée should. Obviously I’m genuinely concerned, but I know how Tyler gets when he’s stubbed a toe. He requires vocal and vigorous attention. 

“Babes—” (For the record, I hate this nickname, but Tyler insists on it.) “Are you okay? How are you feeling? You had me so worried,” I cry out.

He lowers himself to a bench, pushing his lip out. I sit next to him and cling like a barnacle as he refuses to make eye-contact. That tells me he’s upset, and I’ve got to cajole the reason out of him.

“What happened today?” I whisper. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

He glances down at me, eyebrows knitting together. “Babes, you should have been there for my game tonight.”

“I’m sorry I had that job—”

A flash of something crosses his face, but then it’s gone so fast, replaced by a side-sloped smile that I might have imagined it. “Sure. I love that you take your little photos… “

“Little…” My voice is squeaky.

“Little—” He smiles. “Aren’t photographs usually small? That’s what I meant. Either way, I missed you.” He leans closer. “And having you support me is important. Don’t you think so? You know how much pressure I’m under and what I earn per minute. That’s our future, babes. Tonight it was my turn to be supported. But you weren’t there and look what happened.”

Talking about my photography with Tyler always spins my head around a bit. Technically, he’s right. My work… isn’t really work. It isn’t until someone genuinely wants your work, and, so far, no one has. Because you aren’t good enough yet.

Instead of dwelling on that, I focus on his last words. “You think if I’d come tonight, Lokhov… wouldn’t have fought you?” 

How? I’m not a testosterone whisperer!

“You got it wrong, babes. I fought Lokhov and for good reason.” His eyes slide toward mine. “Both teams were trash-talking like normal, but he said some unforgivable things.”

“Like what?”

“About you.”

I rear back, heart thumping. “Me?”

What? Why? That makes no sense. And hadn’t Lokhov been the one to throw the first punch? I must look as confused as I feel because Tyler keeps going.

“He knew it would get into my head. Because my love for you is sensitive.”

My entire body churns. “What kinds of unforgivable things?”

“No, they’re too ungentlemanly for me to repeat. You just have to trust me. It was worth fighting him for.”

Shame tentacles curl around me. Now I’m left wondering about my worst qualities. What would Dmitri Lokhov say about me? The idea of him aiming ugliness personally at me… it…. it hurts worse somehow. Not that we were ever friends, but the last time we met, he helped me puke. I thought the night at prom meant a little truce between us. But does Dmitri hate me this much? What have I ever done to him? 

Because he’s so sensitive, Tyler senses my distress and hugs me. And then he abruptly lets go when the dressing room door opens and a teammate—Sutton—walks out.

He gives Tyler a bro nod, but doesn’t acknowledge me. I don’t get offended since I’m used to it. My dad, their head coach, doesn’t interact with me in front of the team, so that set the precedent. Even when I come for Tyler’s games, I’m by myself in the stands. You don’t want your personal life and work to mix is what my dad says to me and my mother all the time. It’s not that he doesn’t love us, it’s that this separation keeps him focused with no distractions.

But also, I can’t help but want to check in on him. The Blades are the defending champions and they’ve lost against their rivals. Knowing him, he’ll be really stressed. Maybe he won’t mind a ten second interruption? I could give him a quick hug?

“Is my dad inside?” I ask Tyler after Sutton leaves.

“Sorry, babes.” Tyler gets up, putting the crutches under his armpits. “But he needs alone time to focus. The guys do, too. That’s why I’m going out with them tonight.”

I blink up at him, still sitting on the bench. “So I came here to check on you… and now I should go home by myself?”

He shoots me an eager smile. “Yes please, but cancel your photography gig tomorrow. You can come over to my place and nurse me back to health.” He winks.

The smile-wink duo is usually a stunner of a move. It’s dazzled me many times, but doesn’t seem to be working. For one, I don’t want to cancel the three-year-old’s birthday party I promised to photograph. And second, Tyler’s sexy nursing comment should be, in fact, sexy, but my stomach isn’t fluttering at the idea. It’s gone rather sloth-like. Almost turgid.

I could blame the cookie I ate earlier, but when is a cookie truly at fault for anything?

As if reading my expression, my fiancé tuts, leaning heavily on one crutch. “Sorry, babes, but with the loss tonight, I can’t miss going out with the guys. As their captain, it’s my duty to build up morale. It’s what your dad needs me to do. If I can’t do that, and we keep losing, then it comes down hard on him, you know. But if you need me to cancel…” Blue eyes search mine.

“No—No. Of course not!”

What’s wrong with me? My dad and Tyler work so hard! I should support them.

Ignoring my embarrassment and wincing regret, I send a message to my mom’s old coworker, telling them I can’t make her son’s birthday tomorrow, but that I can send her recommendations for other photographers in the area, covering the last minute costs. Then I get up and kiss Tyler. “You haven’t even told me how badly you’re hurt. So I–” My brain scrambles for an attempt at flirting. “—know how much nursing you’ll need tomorrow.”

He bravely tells me it’s only a sprained ankle, but that he was lucky. His career could have ended tonight with the way Lokhov was going after him. Not that he would ever regret defending me.

With an affectionate (I think) pinch of my bum and more reassurances, I’m sent home.

That night, I’m in my apartment. Well—it’s the one Tyler’s friend gives me a great deal on. The rent is heavily subsidized. It was Tyler’s idea for me to move out of my parent’s place. We can hook up here without worry, and I feel more independent this way. Not like I’m a leeching burden.

Tonight, I message Julia. She’s another Blades girlfriend who tells me all the time that we should hang out, and then goes, We’ll definitely have to find the right time when I ask when.

Maybe tonight will finally work?

There’s wine chilling in my fridge, so I’m inviting her over for some.

At my age, I know I should have established friends, but I don’t. I wasn’t popular in high school and I never went to college where I could find new friends, and helping my dad with errands takes up so much time, as does spending time with my mom and being Tyler Smith’s girlfriend.

Julia answers. She’s not free, because she’s hanging out with…

The team?

And so are some of the other partners?

My hand spasms and my phone drops to the ground. When I pick it back up, I’m diving into a stalking spiral, looking up social media stories of this party. There are so many of them. Almost everyone is there.

My heart and head hurt.

On one hand, I have the captain of the Blades defending my honor with his physical body on the ice. On the other hand, he doesn’t invite me out?

My confidence shrinks as I switch to watching the video of Lokhov punching Tyler again. I zoom into their faces. Tyler is smirking and whispering. Lokhov… looks murderous.

A trembling shiver runs down my spine. I drink more wine, watching Tyler get punched in the side of his ribs. It’s brutal. Lokhov had an immediate penalty because of it and that gave Seattle the power play. No goal came out of it, which made Seattle even more frustrated on the ice.

I swirl wine in my mouth, so I feel dignified even as I’ve started drinking from the bottle. Then I think of Anna and her life. Does she hang out with her husband’s friends when they go out? Maybe Tyler would want me more publicly if he knew I had his back like he had mine today.

My hand reaches for my phone again.

How dare Lokhov say horrible things about me and bait Tyler?

This is the same phone I’ve had for ages. It’s more brick than modern technology. On it exists all the contacts I’ve ever entered. It takes a minute, but I find Lokhov. He wasn’t the one to give me his number. My dad was the high school coach. I got all the player’s phone numbers to organize a bake sale ages ago.

What are the chances he’s still got the same contact information?

I don’t know what I’m doing. My legs fold against my chest. I keep thinking that I’ve done nothing to prove myself worthy. No matter how much I want to be, I’m not a photographer, this studio apartment is subsidized because the landlord is a friend of Tyler’s, and I’ve never gone to college or proved myself worthy of earning anything on my own.

Playing the video again, I see Lokhov glare at Tyler. It really pisses me off. How dare he go after him like this?

My fingers type. I send a message.

ME

This is Kavi Basra. Not sure if you still have this same number, but I’ve got a problem with you. We need to speak, Lokhov.

Tyler defended me. Now I’ll defend him. The illogical logic of a drunken woman with something to prove is genius. Part of me thinks if I do this, Tyler will know he can count on me, too. Then I’ll definitely get invited to team parties.

Lokhov doesn’t answer. I don’t even know if it’s him on the other side.

I send another message.

ME

Where are you?

No answer.

ME

If you don’t tell me, I’ll wander the streets all night by myself.

I’m not sure why I think it will work…

But it does.

Dmitri Lokhov sends me his location. I know it’s him because he’s staying at an insanely expensive hotel.

Without changing out of my pajamas, I call a cab and make my way towards it, obviously bringing the wine along because you can’t let a good bottle go to waste.

Not when you need liquid courage before confronting the surliest, grumpiest hockey player in the league who already almost beat the crap out of your fiancé today.

KAVI

The security guard is kicking me out before I make it to Lokhov’s room.

Probably because I’m in a two-piece pajama set textured like a rug and wearing a backpack while everyone else glides around in formal wear. My outfit is sad cashmere (if you squint) and struggles to cover my size sixteen body. I’m pear-shaped, so my boobs are petite, but my bum and thighs strain to bust out.

Heads turn as I drag my feet, slowing the guard down. A woman in a stunning cocktail dress whispers disapproval to the coiffed man beside her.

Before we make it to the door, a curly-haired Asian man stops us. His name tag says he’s the manager.

“What’s going on?” he asks the guard.

“This homeless woman was trying to sneak upstairs!”

I gasp. “I’m not homeless. I’m Kavi Basra!”

I’d meant to share my name as a last stand, kind of like a This is Sparta declaration before I’m thrown out, but the manager jerks as if he’s been slapped. “Kavleen Basra?”

Confusion and dread battle it out in my suddenly knotted stomach. I whisper, “I prefer Kavi.”

I’m not famous. My dad is the head coach of the Seattle Blades, and my fiancé is their captain, but no one has ever given my personal name any attention. I exist in the background of their success, never beside it and certainly not in front of it.

The manager’s hands jerk. “Mr. Lokhov informed us you were coming, but I didn’t think you were—” He clears his throat. “We apologize profusely for any offense, please let us make up for our mistake.”

Before I can ask questions, I’m given a complimentary bottle of expensive champagne. I store it in my backpack, only because it’s padded with enough tissue paper so the bottle won’t scratch the camera in there. After that, I’m escorted to a private elevator because Dmitri Lokhov is staying in a penthouse that isn’t accessible otherwise.

As the elevator climbs higher and higher, I’m gulping at my reflection in the mirrored glass. I’m wild-eyed, my hair is askew, and this outfit shows way more curves than I thought it did despite the dishrag material.

And then, before I know it, I’m standing in front of his door.

Right as I’m about to angrily knock, it swings open.

Dmitri Lokhov has really grown up, is my first thought as he lets me inside.

The last time I saw him this close-up was prom.

Back then he was devastatingly handsome, but in an outcast, loner kind of way. Also there was a touch of softness in the contours of his body to lull you into some slight sense of security.

A strange feeling hitches in my chest as I stare at him now.

All that softness is gone.

In front of me is a man with no hint of boyishness left. If it weren’t for his eyes, I wouldn’t think he was the same teenager who relentlessly ignored me in high school.

They are the same startling shade as ever. Not brown or black, but both and also gold when the light catches them at a certain angle.

This sounds way too posh, but poets could drawl soliloquies comparing that golden sight with the bottom rim of a full whiskey glass, set under the wonder of an unclouded sun.

Not me, though.

In my head, Lokhov’s eyes are dark, evil, and tar-like. And he’s tall and menacing, with his darker hair, darker brows, and a chiseled jaw sporting the darkest of stubble. Thick muscled arms are covered in tattoos so densely packed I’d have to stick my nose against his skin to figure out the inked shapes.

His eyes flick to my mouth, linger, and then pull back up.

That little gesture does… something to me. Awareness trickles through my body like a soft, puzzling, drizzle. I suck in a shallow breath, confused. There’s a stumble of a pulse.

Quickly I bite my lip, needing pain to remind myself why I’m here. Anger and righteousness refire, and I forcibly stoke those feelings higher. My backpack goes down on the ground. Like an athlete warming up—which I am nowhere close to being—I roll my shoulders.

My feet move as I circle him slowly.

We’re in an absurdly spacious penthouse that could include an Olympic-sized swimming pool if it so desired. Skimming my gaze around, I count three separate living spaces with their own couches. The kitchen has an onyx island that could fit multiples of me on the midnight marble. Looking past the furniture, there is a city skyline spreading out a decadent view of twinkling lights reflecting off the water. Stepping out onto the balcony, I bet you could walk a whole, long circle around the penthouse and see the stars from any angle. It looks like it wraps around the whole unit.

That’s not why I’m here.

Coming back to face him again, I put my meanest sneer on. “I’m about to punch you, Lokhov—”

The diagonal scar notching the fullness of his upper lip twitches.

“—because you nearly cost my fiancé his career.”

A Note from Sookh

Thank you for reading this newsletter exclusive sneak peek of Breaking Away! 

This book officially releases on October 20th, 2024, but you can pre-order it right now for a special discounted price!