Page 11

Chapter 11

The Physics of Falling

Erin

M orning sunlight filters through my bedroom window, streaking gold across the sheets like a cruel joke, mocking my sleepless night. My body aches in that restless, unsatisfied way that comes from tossing and turning for hours, burning up the bed while my mind loops the same maddening question on repeat.

Why the fuck is he holding back?

He wants me. I know he wants me. It’s in the way his eyes darken when I step too close. The way his hands flex like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me. The way his accent roughens when he’s tired, curling around my name like a secret.

And yet—nothing.

No stolen kisses in the hallway. No hands slipping over my waist when Ris isn’t looking. No anything .

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to let it go. But all I can see is the way he looked at me last night. The way his gaze found mine every. Single. Time. His body hammering into opponents with brutal, beautiful precision, my pulse spiking like I felt the impact. The quiet, devastating softness in his face when he looked up at the box, when he saw Ris in his jersey, when she beamed at him.

God, that smile.

I groan and shove my pillow over my face. This is insane . I shouldn’t be lying here, burning up over a man who refuses to make a move.

Maybe he’s just not interested.

Except, he is.

I see it. Feel it.

So why the hell is he resisting?

Does he have a girlfriend? Some secret, stunning woman tucked away, so discreetly hidden that even the tabloids—who track every move he makes on the ice—haven’t caught a whiff of her? He’s so damn private, a fortress of control, and in the days I’ve lived in his house, I haven’t found a single sign of another woman. Not a spare toothbrush. Not an abandoned hair tie. Nothing .

So what is it?

He’s clearly not gay with the way he reacts to me. And the way he looked at me in the gym? No straight man watches a woman stretch like that and walks away without doing something about it.

My head drops back against the mattress, frustration curling hot and tight in my gut. This is ridiculous. I should be thinking about my upcoming performance at Red Velvet. About my YouTube channel. About booking more summer gigs.

Instead, I’m lying here like a desperate idiot, wondering what the hell it’s going to take to make Dmitri Sokolov break.

My mind fixates on the blaze in his eyes. The way his hand ghosted over my lower back yesterday. The deep, low rumble of his voice that lingers in my head like a song I can’t stop replaying. Him splayed on the sofa, reading poetry.

Poetry.

The memory alone makes my legs press together, my body tight and aching, clenching around nothing.

A soft thump from down the hall snaps me out of my Dmitri-induced haze. Ris must be up.

I drag myself out of bed and pad to the kitchen, grounding myself in the ritual of making coffee. Measure the beans. Grind them just right. Heat the water to exactly 200 degrees, because anything else is barbaric.

“You’re worse than your brother with the coffee thing,” Sophie’s voice teases in my head.

Before I can defend my completely reasonable coffee standards to the friend in my head, the stairs creak.

“ Dobroye utro .”

Fucking hell.

Dmitri fills the doorway, sleep rumpled and devastating, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, a threadbare Defenders T-shirt stretching over his chest. His voice is rough from sleep, his dark hair sticking up in a way that makes my fingers twitch to smooth it down.

This is unfair.

“Morning,” I manage, proud that my voice comes out mostly steady. “Coffee?”

He makes a low, approving sound that slides through me like warm honey. “ Spasibo .” The word is a quiet, velvety rasp.

I turn back to the coffee maker, desperate for something to do with my hands that isn’t touching him. “I thought you’d still be sleeping. It was an intense game last night.”

“Early riser.” His voice is closer now, heat rolling off him in waves. “It’s a hard habit to break.”

I keep my focus on the coffee grounds. “Ris up yet?”

“ Da . Playing with her bears.” His tone softens in that way it always does when he talks about her. “They have an important meeting. Serious business.”

The image makes me smile. “What’s on the agenda today?”

He hums like he’s giving it real thought. “Could be proper tea party etiquette. Or maybe world peace.”

I glance over my shoulder and immediately regret it.

Because he’s watching me.

Not just watching—tracking. Like he’s studying me. Like I’m something he wants to keep.

His mouth curves slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. But there’s something else there. Something dark and hungry.

My heart thunders in my chest, so loud that I could swear he can hear it. Maybe this is the day he makes a move. This is fine, I try to calm myself. Just wait.

“You didn’t stay last night.” His voice is casual.

I shrug, reaching for two mugs. “Someone had to get Sleeping Beauty to bed. While you were getting crushed at chess by Adam.” I hand him a cup, keeping my tone light. “Three games in a row, from what I heard.”

Dmitri makes a low sound in his throat. “He cheats.”

“Pretty sure that’s not possible in chess.”

“You have not played Coach’s son.”

He steps closer, reaching for the mug. His arm brushes mine, and a jolt of heat shoots down my spine.

I swallow hard. “At least he didn’t try to flip the board when he was losing.”

Dmitri exhales sharply, almost a laugh. “The board was defective.”

I smirk. “Right. That’s why Adam’s king ended up in your water glass?”

His eyes darken. The teasing, the banter—it shifts, twists into something heavy and charged.

“ Careful , solnyshko.”

The Russian rolls off his tongue like a slow, deliberate caress. Thick and smooth and devastating. I grip the counter, my breath shaking. But something about the way he’s looking at me makes me reckless.

“What does that mean?”

His gaze flickers—just for a second—like he’s deciding whether to let me in or shut me out. Then he leans in, close enough that I can feel his breath.

“Little sun.”

The words land like an anvil, knocking the air from my lungs. Little sun. Warmth floods my chest, my stomach, pooling low, twisting tight. Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.

His jaw flexes, knuckles white around his mug.

“It suits you.” His voice is rough, weighted, thick with barely leashed desire—a hunger so fierce it steals the air from my lungs.

This is it. He’s about to break.

His chest rises and falls too fast, each breath sharp and uneven. Tension coils through his shoulders, tight as a drawn bow, like he’s fighting the urge to close the distance. His gaze flickers—lips, throat, collarbone—before snapping back to mine, dark and scorching.

I was right. He wants me.

He’s hanging by a thread, teetering on the edge of control. One more push, one breath too close, and he’ll shatter. He’ll pin me to the counter, grip my hips in those massive hands, and kiss me like he’s starving, like he needs to taste me to stay upright.

And God help me, I want him to break.

I want him to lose.

I want to be the thing that ruins Dmitri Sokolov.

But then, tiny footsteps thunder down the stairs, and we jolt apart like we’ve been electrocuted.

Ris bursts into the kitchen, still in her pajamas, her curls bouncing as she runs straight for Dmitri. “Papa! The bears have made a very important decision!”

His entire body shifts. Just like that, the smoldering tension vanishes. He catches her midair, his lips pressing to the top of her head, his voice warm and steady like nothing just happened.

Like he wasn’t about to swallow me whole. I exhale shakily, gripping the counter so I don’t collapse into it.

Dmitri glances at me over the top of his daughter’s head. And the look in his eyes tells me he’s not forgetting this either.

Ris turns to me, jubilant. “Papa was a beast! Did you see when he crashed into that huge guy?”

I nod, noticing how his shirt rode up, exposing a strip of abs. The glimpse of bare skin lingers, flashing in my mind like an afterimage while I crack eggs into a bowl.

Focus, Erin. Breakfast. Not his stupid muscles.

“Hockey plays stay on ice, Amnushka ,” he rumbles, but his eyes crinkle with pride.

I focus on preparing the food. I can guess his post-game breakfast —six eggs with extra whites, some complex carbs.

Ris bounces in his arms. “Erin! Make the eggs the special way! With the secret cheese!”

“Secret cheese?” Dmitri’s voice holds a hint of amusement. “You conspire against my meal plan?”

“Just a sprinkle of feta,” I say, already reaching for it. “The protein macros will still work out.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You know my macros?”

I busy myself with the skillet, willing my cheeks not to flush. “I may have a few hockey players in my inner family circle—you know, like both my brothers?”

His expression shifts slightly. “Brothers.” He sets Ris down. “You have more than one?”

“Yes, Kieran. He’s at BU. Playing college hockey.”

“Papa blocked three shots!” Ris clambers onto a barstool, kicking her legs. “And he didn’t even fall down once!”

“Very impressive.” I slide two plates in front of them, loaded with protein and enough fuel to power a six-year-old and a professional athlete through the morning. “By the way, one of my middle school students is selling a child-sized cello. Think you’d want to check it out for Ris?”

Dmitri sets Ris down in her chair, arching a brow. “Ready for lessons, zvyozdochka ?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” She bounces excitedly, nearly toppling her juice cup.

I grin. “They’re on the Upper East Side. We could swing by today and check it out?”

Dmitri nods, considering. “I have coaching at ten. But after?”

“Perfect.” I reach for my phone. “I’ll text them and see when they’re around.”

“Your class is gonna be so excited!” Ris says through a mouthful of eggs. “They watch all the games, and they love when Papa goes boom !”

“ Chewing first, ” Dmitri and I say in unison.

Our eyes meet.

Something crackles between us.

Dmitri breaks the moment first. “We should get ready.” He stands, and Ris thunders upstairs, leaving the kitchen thick with tension.

“Wear something warm,” he says finally. “The rink gets cold.”

Before I can respond, Ris’s voice carries down.

“Papa! I can’t find my lucky hockey socks!”

“Under the bed,” he calls back. “Where you always leave them.”

“They’re not there!”

“Second drawer, then.”

“Those aren’t the lucky ones!”

He mutters something in Russian that is definitely not child-friendly.

Then, at the stairs, he pauses. Turns back.

“We’re leaving around nine. Can you be ready?”

I nod, but my body is still burning, my pulse still pounding in my throat.

Because if I thought this morning was hard to get through, being trapped in a car with Dmitri Sokolov after that?

That’s going to be a whole new kind of torture.

* * *

The indoor rink hums with the scrape of skates and the excited shouts of tiny hockey players. April sunlight streams through the high windows, catching on the freshly smoothed ice, making it glitter like diamonds.

And then there’s Dmitri.

He moves across the rink with effortless control, fluid and powerful in a way that makes my mouth go dry. His practice jersey stretches across his shoulders as he demonstrates a stickhandling drill, and I have to remind myself that I am here to supervise Ris, not to ogle her father.

“Papa’s showing them how to stop!” Ris bounces beside me, eyes glued to the ice. “See? Like this!” She mimics the movement from her seat, full of pride and enthusiasm.

I force myself to focus on her, not on Dmitri dropping into a defensive stance, his thighs flexing beneath his practice pants like a personal attack on my self-control.

“Oh, there they are! Kaycee, look who it is!”

Melissa materializes beside me, her daughter bouncing excitedly next to her. She’s immaculate, wrapped in designer athleisure that hugs every toned curve, her expertly highlighted hair swinging as she leans in with a knowing grin.

“We absolutely must get the girls together for a playdate next week,” she purrs. “Kaycee doesn’t stop talking about Ris.”

Before I can channel my inner Dmitri and grunt noncommittally, Ris lights up. “Can we, Erin? Please?”

Those big blue eyes are lethal. No wonder Dmitri caves to her every request.

“Actually,” I hear myself say—because apparently my mouth is working without clearance from my brain—“that might be nice. Dmitri’s away for playoffs next week, so maybe Monday after school? They could play at the house.”

Melissa’s eyes gleam like I just handed her a golden ticket to the Stanley Cup Finals.

“At Dmitri’s place? Oh, that would be simply divine!” She practically vibrates with excitement, and I swear she just mentally fast-forwarded to a candlelit dinner in his kitchen. “Isn’t it amazing how he manages everything? Coaching, playing, raising sweet Ris all on his own…”

I nod along, forcing a tight smile. Because of course, men like Dmitri get standing ovations for basic multitasking, while women doing the exact same thing don’t even get an honorable mention.

As Melissa continues her one-woman Dmitri fan club meeting, I try not to stew in my thoughts. But then, on the ice, he drops into a perfect defensive stance again, and we both lose the ability to function for a second.

I glance at the girls—still deep in their own world, debating which dolls to bring—then back at Melissa, who sighs dreamily.

“He’s just so… involved, ” she muses, then turns to me with laser focus. “How did you end up sitting for them?”

“Oh, my brother asked me to help out. The team’s heading into playoffs, and they can’t afford to lose their strongest defenseman to a childcare emergency.”

Melissa tilts her head, her glossy lips pursed. I can almost hear the gears grinding.

“Your brother?”

“Liam O’Connor. You know, the team captain?”

Her mouth forms a little O of surprise. “You’re the captain’s sister? That’s how you know Dmitri?”

“‘Know’ might be a stretch,” I mutter. “More like occasionally stare at him while pretending to be a functioning adult . ”

Oh God. Why did I say that?

Melissa laughs , patting my arm like I’ve just been inducted into a very exclusive club. “Honey, that’s all of us. Have you seen him do the thing where he wipes his face with his shirt?”

As if summoned by the sheer force of our collective thirst, Dmitri does exactly that.

A strip of abs appears. A ridiculous, unfair amount of abs. Someone in the bleachers whimpers.

It might have been me.

“The PTA meetings get very competitive,” Melissa confides, eyes still locked on the ice. “Last month, Karen brought homemade protein bars. Shaped like hockey pucks.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. A quick check confirms the girls are still lost in their playdate planning. “How…dedicated.”

“They were terrible . But she got to explain the macros to him personally, so…mission accomplished.”

On the ice, Dmitri’s voice carries over, low and authoritative, something about proper edge work. A muscle in his forearm flexes as he adjusts a kid’s stance, and my IQ drops by fifty points.

Melissa sighs. “The accent is really not fair.”

“Right? Like, pick a struggle.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “Sorry, I mean?—”

“Oh, honey.” Melissa pats my arm again. “We’ve all been there. Two weeks ago, I tried to explain the benefits of CrossFit to him for twenty minutes. I don’t even do CrossFit.”

I snort-laugh, officially tanking any attempt at aloof distance. Because yeah, I get it. Everything about Dmitri Sokolov is a direct attack on higher brain function.

“So, Monday?” Melissa asks, already typing in her phone. “Three-thirty? I’ll bring snacks.” She pauses. “Not protein bars, I promise.”

“Perfect.” I grin. “Maybe avoid the PTA mention next time.”

Her laugh carries across the rink, bright and unfiltered.

Dmitri immediately glances over. The look he gives us—equal parts suspicious and vaguely concerned—only makes us laugh harder.

“Protein pucks,” I wheeze.

“CrossFit,” she whispers back.

We’re still giggling when Dmitri glides toward us, and my heart lunges into my throat. His practice jersey clings to his frame, his movements lethal to my rational mind.

“That’s my cue.” Melissa stands up and waves at Dmitri, heading to the group of boys exiting the rink.

His dark eyes sweep over me, slow and thorough, lingering just long enough to leave a burn in their wake.

Down, girl.

“What,” he demands, his accent thicker than usual, “was that about?”

“Well...” My voice is embarrassingly breathy. I clear my throat. Try again. “Ris and Kaycee are having a playdate. Monday after pickup.”

“At our house!” Ris bounces beside me, beaming.

His jaw tightens. Just slightly. If I wasn’t hyper-attuned to his every micro-expression—and really, when did that happen?—I might have missed it.

“Right, about that!” I jump in, desperate to redirect before he can protest. “We should probably get going. My student’s parents said they’d be home after twelve, and with traffic?—”

“Where on the Upper East Side?”

He steps closer, and suddenly there’s not enough oxygen in this entire rink. His scent—clean, warm, masculine—wraps around me like a physical touch.

“Just off Park,” I manage, pulse wrecked.

“We should feed Ris too.”

Not a question.

His voice drops lower, as if we were going on a date. “Know a good place?”

My brain flatlines, scrambling for a restaurant suitable for both a six-year-old and a man who makes my entire nervous system short-circuit.

“Neue Galerie maybe?” I squeak. “They have good Austrian pastries Ris might like.”

“Pastries!” Ris bounces. “Can we go, Papa? Please?”

His eyes find mine over Ris’s head, dark and intent. “ Da. We go.” Then, softer, meant just for me, “ Solnyshko knows best, yes?”

The endearment slides through me like honey, warm and dangerous. I busy myself with gathering our things, pretending my cheeks aren’t burning.

“Ready?” he asks, and when I look up, he’s watching me with that same intensity from this morning, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me.

“Almost.” I adjust Ris’s scarf, grateful for the distraction. “There. Now we’re?—”

His hand catches mine as I straighten, just for a moment. Just long enough to set every nerve ending on fire.

“ Spasibo ,” he murmurs in Russian, then switches back to English. “For being good with her.”

The tenderness in his voice undoes me completely.

“Always,” I manage, and his fingers tighten briefly before letting go.

As we head for the car, I catch him watching me again, his expression soft around the edges in a way that makes my heart stumble.

This day isn’t just going to kill me.

It’s going to absolutely wreck me.