Page 2

Chapter 2

Game On

Erin

T he moment I step into my studio apartment in the Village, I toss my bag onto the bed and open my laptop. My YouTube channel, Classical Crossroads, has been steadily climbing—fifty thousand subscribers tuning in for everything from Bach to behind-the-scenes practice vlogs. But lately, the analytics have stalled.

“Time to shake things up,” I mutter, scrolling through my most-watched videos.

The Beethoven cello sonatas? Always a steady performer. My Practice with Me series? A go-to for music students. But the real viral moments—the ones that blow up overnight—are always the unexpected collaborations. Like last month’s impromptu duet with a street drummer in Washington Square Park. Or the subway concert that turned a late-night commute into a standing-room-only show.

I tap my fingers against my desk, an idea forming.

When Hockey Meets Classical Music – The Rhythm of the Game.

A few scribbled notes later, my phone buzzes.

[Liam]: Coming tonight? Last game before playoffs.

I hesitate. I should practice. I should edit. But I could also film a few new videos—and if that just so happens to involve capturing some hockey footage, well…artistic inspiration comes in many forms.

[Me]: Maybe. Thinking of filming some content for my channel.

[Liam]: Perfect. Family box is open. Sophie’s bringing Jenna. Jessica will be around too.

Two hours later, I find myself speed-walking through the VIP entrance at Madison Square Garden, my camera bouncing in my bag, telling myself this is purely for content. Strictly professional.

And absolutely not about the six-foot-four brooding Russian defenseman who just happens to be playing tonight.

The family box is just as obnoxiously over the top as I remember—plush seats, a God-tier view of the ice, and a buffet spread so decadent it feels like a crime to eat from it without a formal invitation.

I grab a drink, sink into a seat, and try to focus on video ideas.

Not on the fact that in a few minutes, Dmitri Sokolov is going to hit the ice for warm-ups.

I should be thinking about content. Plotting a new series. Strategizing ways to build momentum for my channel. Instead, I spent the afternoon in a TikTok rabbit hole, inhaling every Defenders warm-up video I could find. The cardinal sin of every creative person—consuming more than producing. But in my defense, the content was mesmerizing.

Or, more specifically, he was.

Dmitri on the ice is pure dominance—every movement sharp, precise, a masterclass in control. He moves like the rink belongs to him, cutting through the space, owning it.

And his warm-up? Completely inappropriate.

First, the deep lunges—his knee nearly brushing the ice, muscles flexing tight, restrained power thrumming through every inch of him. There’s no hesitation in the way he moves, no wasted effort. Just raw, breathtaking strength. Then the slow, deliberate twists at the waist, his broad shoulders rolling as he loosens up, thick padding doing nothing to hide the sheer power beneath. He plants his skates wide, tilts his head side to side, cracking his neck with a quiet finality that sets my skin on fire.

And then, worst of all—the hip stretches. One skate hooked over the other knee, sinking into a deep squat, shifting his weight like he has all the time in the world. My fingers tightened around my drink as I watched, helpless against the heat pooling between my thighs.

Like he’s preparing for battle.

Like he’s completely unaware—or very aware—of the absolute destruction he’s leaving in his wake.

Oh, for the love of all things holy.

By the time I snapped out of the TikTok vertigo, my to-do list was untouched, my latest video still unedited, and the only thing I’d accomplished was gaining an unhealthy amount of knowledge about Dmitri Sokolov’s stretching routine.

And now, I have to watch him do it all again.

Live.

Without drooling.

“Look who finally escaped the practice rooms!” Sophie waves me over, grinning. “Ready to rejoin the land of the living?”

“Please,” I groan, dropping into the seat beside her. “You’re the one about to start med school. I’m just trading one kind of performance anxiety for another.”

“At least you’ll get paid for yours,” Jenna quips, sipping her drink. “Unlike the next six years of our lives.”

“I need to survive my final recital first.” I scrub a hand down my face. “Shostakovich is trying to kill me. The cadenza alone feels like a three-minute stress test designed by Satan himself. If my left pinkie doesn’t give out, my brain might.”

Sophie winces. “That bad?”

“Imagine sprinting uphill while solving a calculus problem. On one foot. In front of an audience.”

“Yikes.”

“Exactly. And on top of that, I need new content ideas. My channel could use a boost—something fresh.”

“Shostakovich and social media pressure?” Sophie shakes her head. “You’ve had a packed day.”

“Oh, and did I mention I need a new cello? A thirty-thousand-dollar one?”

“Jesus, woman, you have problems,” Sophie teases. “I’m sure Liam would be happy to help. Have you talked to him?”

“No way, Soph. He offers at least once a week, but it’s still a hard no. I need to figure this one out on my own.”

“What if you let him buy it, then you pay him back?” But I still shake my head. Liam tried that one too. And it’s definitely an option, but not one I’m willing to take yet.

“Why Shostakovich?” Jenna intercepts, intrigued. “It sounds like pure torture.”

“Because his music matters, ” I exclaim, exasperated at their lack of appreciation. “It’s one of the most raw, devastating pieces ever written.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s rage, suffering, defiance, humor —all wrapped into one,” I explain, my hands already gesturing. “You don’t just play it. You feel it. It hits you in the bones.” I flop back in my seat with a sigh. “But one wrong move, and I’m completely screwed.”

Jessica, ever the strategist, leans in. “Have you thought about what’s next? The Philharmonic could probably use social media consultants.”

I shake my head before she even finishes. “No.” I want to perform, not sit in an office editing highlight reels of other people performing. I didn’t pick Shostakovich by accident. It’s demanding. Relentless. A piece that forces you to prove yourself. He didn’t just write music. He fought with it.

And that’s exactly what I intend to do.

“Let her breathe,” Jenna cuts in, half listening while scrolling on her phone, sneaking glances at the ice.

Sophie smirks. “Says the girl who swore sports were a waste of perfectly good leg muscles. What’s with the sudden interest in hockey?”

Jenna’s cheeks turn pink. “I’m expanding my horizons.”

“Right,” Jessica says dryly. “Nothing to do with?—”

“So!” I cut in, yanking out my camera like it’s a life raft. “Anyone want to help me brainstorm? I’m thinking something about rhythm in sports, or maybe mathematical patterns in gameplay.”

“Nerd,” Sophie teases, nudging me. “But the best kind. The kind who’s about to graduate with a performance degree, so you’ve earned it.”

The lights dim, and the arena hums with anticipation. I lift my camera, sweeping the lens across the ice.

Liam, orchestrating the play like a battlefield general. Adam, carving the ice, every turn a blade slicing through marble. Finn, a predator on the wing, all speed and chaos, striking before defenders even know he’s there. Nate, a fortress in front of the net, unmoving, impenetrable.

They move like something otherworldly—too fast, too powerful, built for destruction yet breathtaking in their control. An army of titans on blades, and I don’t know where to look first.

But then, I pause.

On Dmitri.

For research purposes, obviously. Nothing more. And definitely not because watching him command the ice like he owns it has my thighs pressing together.

The camera stays trained on him, but I’m not even looking at the viewfinder anymore. I’m watching the real thing.

The raw, effortless strength in every stride. The way his legs coil and release, pure precision and power. The way he pivots, cutting sharp through the ice, sending up a spray of snow like it personally offended him.

The way his body moves.

I swallow hard.

He’s devastating. A symphony of muscle and control. Chiseled from marble but built to destroy.

Terrifying in the best fucking way.

“You’re drooling,” Sophie whispers, elbowing me.

“Am not,” I hiss, even as I definitely zoom in on Number 55. “I’m documenting gameplay patterns for my video.”

“Uh-huh.” Jessica leans over, deadpan. “And these patterns just so happen to focus on…Sokolov?”

“The same man who’s been sneaking glances up here between plays?” Jenna adds sweetly.

Wait, what?

My pulse stumbles. My eyes dart to the ice, searching— and oh, bad idea.

Because the second I meet his gaze, it’s like a live wire snaps between us. A full-body hit, sudden and all consuming, leaving me breathless and burning.

“I saw that,” Sophie sing-songs.

“Saw what? Nothing happened. I’m filming. For work. ”

“Right,” Jessica drawls. “Because your channel definitely needs thirty different angles of Dmitri Sokolov’s hockey pants.”

“They’re...flattering , ” I mumble, refusing to look away from my camera screen.

And then it happens.

Dmitri intercepts a pass at the blue line, his stick slicing through the air. One shift of his weight, and he’s gone —legs coiling, body surging forward as he dekes past a Kings defenseman so cleanly the poor guy nearly trips over his own skates.

The crowd erupts , a deafening pulse of energy that seems to move with him, twenty thousand voices rising as he carves through open ice like a panther hunting his kill.

Fast. Fluid. Deadly.

His power is unreal . Every stride is an extension of menacing, raw violence—his skates digging in, cutting deep, spraying ice in his wake. His shoulders roll as he accelerates, muscles bunching beneath the weight of his gear.

The goalie braces. The defenders scramble. It doesn’t matter.

Dmitri flicks his wrist.

Boom.

The puck rockets into the net.

Madison Square Garden explodes.

Jenna screams , grabbing my arm hard enough to bruise. “Did you see that?! Highlight reel, hands down!”

I nod. Barely. Because I can’t speak. Because the Russian Destruction is skating past our box. His eyes glued on me.

And then?—

Oh, fuck.

He lifts his gloved hand to his ear.

The call me gesture.

My stomach drops. My pulse spikes.

And then—worse.

He mimes playing a cello.

Right there, in front of God, my brother, and twenty thousand screaming fans.

My jaw hits the floor.

And then to top it off, he winks.

Actually. Fucking. Winks.

At me .

I die.

Jessica blinks. “Since when does Sokolov celebrate goals?”

“He doesn’t,” Sophie breathes. “He usually just fist bumps and moves on.”

“Maybe he’s feeling musical tonight,” Jenna snickers.

I cannot breathe. My hands are shaking. My skin is burning. My panties are on fire.

“Dmitri Sokolov just dedicated a goal to you,” Sophie hums, sipping her drink like this is fine. Like my entire life hasn’t just been upended.

“He did not—it wasn’t—” I sputter, pulse rioting.

“Oh, totally,” Jenna deadpans. “He mimes playing a cello for all his goals. Super common occurrence around here.”

I whip around to glare at her.

“I know where you guys are going with this,” I say, arms folding tight like that alone can keep the thought at bay. Then I sigh, already losing the battle. “And I shouldn’t.”

Jenna snorts. “You don’t find him hot? Are you blind, woman?”

I shake my head. “That’s definitely not the problem.”

Sophie arches a brow, grinning. “Then what is?”

I exhale sharply. “He’s not a casual kind of guy. And I…” I hesitate, pressing my lips together before finally admitting the rest. “I don’t do serious. I’m not looking for forever—I’m barely looking for next week.”

Sophie hums, her smirk deepening. “So, what you’re saying is, you want to tap that ass, just not get attached.”

I glare. “That’s not what I?—”

“That’s exactly what you’re saying,” Jenna cuts in, grinning.

I open my mouth to argue, then snap it shut. Because they’re not wrong.

Dmitri Sokolov isn’t the kind of man you have a fling with. He’s the kind of man who makes you forget where you were headed. The kind who doesn’t just slip into your life—he settles in. He builds things.

But maybe, for a little while, he’d be ok with something casual.

I mean, he’s a guy. And guys don’t usually want attachment, right? Especially single dads with a million responsibilities.

So maybe…just maybe…

I could have him. For a little while.

If I don’t get greedy.

I say it to myself like a promise.

And then…

I feel it.

That slow, crawling heat against my skin.

Like being watched .

I don’t want to look. I shouldn’t look.

But I do.

And Dmitri…

He’s watching me.

Not casually. Not indifferently.

It’s intense . Dark and smoldering. A promise wrapped in slow, deliberate possession.

My stomach plummets.

My entire body buzzes.

Oh, I need to stay so far away from this man.

* * *

Back in my apartment, I tell myself I’m being professional as I load the footage onto my laptop. Just another night, editing a video. For my channel. For my career . Because once I hit a hundred thousand subscribers, this thing will start making me real money on autopilot.

Absolutely not an excuse to watch Dmitri Sokolov in high definition for the next few hours.

Except.

My cursor hovers over a clip—him mid-stride, thighs flexing, raw power coiling and releasing with every push across the ice. I hit play. Again. And maybe… one more time.

What the hell is up with those thighs?

Thick. Solid. Designed to drive him forward with unstoppable force.

For research purposes , I let the clip loop, watching the slow bend of his knee, the strength beneath all that padding. If I close my eyes, I can see it—him sitting back on a bed, legs spread. Me kneeling in front of him, my fingers trailing up the inside of one thick thigh, my mouth following, heat pooling between us as I inch closer, doing my research ?—

Sweet baby Jesus.

I jolt upright, slamming my laptop shut like it just insulted my grandmother.

Totally normal. Totally professional.

My phone buzzes, yanking me out of my completely professional and not at all unhinged spiral.

[Sophie]: How’s the editing going?

[Jessica]: She’s probably on her fifth rewatch of that goal celly.

[Jenna]: You mean the one where he literally asked her out in front of 20k people?

I groan, but they’re not wrong. Did he ask me out? I’ve watched that clip at least twelve times, studying the way his mouth curved into that panty-melting smirk right before he mimed playing the cello. The way his eyes found mine through the crowd, like he knew exactly where I’d be.

[Me]: I hate all of you. This is not helping my focus.

[Sophie]: No, you don’t. But you might hate me for this...

She sends a link. My finger has declared independence, clicking before my brain can stop it.

The page loads and?—

Oh.

It’s the Sports Monthly body issue from last year.

Dmitri Sokolov. Naked.

Well, strategically covered. But still.

Those shoulders. That chest. The sharp V-cut of his abs disappearing behind what has to be the world’s luckiest hockey stick.

[Me]: I definitely hate you.

[Jenna]: Notice she’s not denying that she’s looking…

[Me]: How am I supposed to not look? Or for that matter, sleep after seeing this?!

[Jessica]: You’re welcome.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, slamming the tab shut.

Open it again.

Close it.

Open it one last time because I’m only human, and those abs deserve proper appreciation.

Then—another ping. A new comment on my latest video.

HockeyBabe99: OMG did anyone else see Sokolov’s cello celly tonight?!

The replies flood in:

YESSSS SO CUTE

Wait, does he play??

No, but the cellist in the family box sure caught his attention.

That wink tho.

I slam my laptop shut so hard it nearly rebounds off my desk.

But the damage is done.

The image of him is burned into my retinas—both the magazine spread and the way he looked at me tonight. All heat and promise and want.

I flop onto my bed, but that’s worse. Because now I’m thinking about his hands. On me. In bed. Those huge, powerful hands that could probably span my entire waist. The way his accent wraps around words like he’s tasting them.

How he’d sound growling commands in Russian.

My phone buzzes again.

[Sophie]: So, when are you seeing him again?

[Me]: I don’t know. Suppose I’m not. It would be very distracting

[Sophie]: Liar

[Me]: I mean it. No single dads for me. Especially not my brother’s teammate

[Jenna]: He clearly has a thing for cellists

[Sophie]: He scored a goal just to flirt with you

[Jenna]: He scored a goal and asked you out on a date. In front of 20,000 people

[Me]: Wait—did he actually ask me out? Do I need to call him now?!

[Sophie]: Yes

[Jenna]: He definitely asked you out

[Jessica]: Wait until he makes the next move

[Me]: Ugh. I’m going to bed

[Sophie]: To dream about Sokolov?

[Me]: Can you blame me?

I chuck my phone across the room, but I still hear their laughter in my head.

Sleep is impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. The way his suit fit at the Philharmonic. How he moved on the ice tonight. That body issue spread.

He’s just a guy , I tell myself.

A guy who looks at his daughter like she hung the moon.

Who quotes math principles to explain music.

Who fills out a suit like it was painted on him.

Who can probably bench press me with one arm and?—

Oh no, don’t go there, Erin. Not helpful.

I roll over, punching my pillow into submission. But my traitor brain keeps spinning scenarios.

How those hands would feel sliding up my thighs. How my hands would feel sliding up his thighs.

What that accent would sound like rough with want.

Whether he’s as controlling and dominant in bed as he is on the ice.

Oh God, please say yes.

“I’m so screwed,” I groan into my pillow.

My phone lights up again.

[Sophie]: Sweet dreams...about Dmitri

I’m going to need a very hard workout and a very cold shower.