Page 28

Chapter 28

Ice and Fire

Dmitri

T he Wells Fargo Center vibrates with playoff hatred. A sea of orange and black, screaming for blood.

My blood.

I barely hear it.

Two losses at home. Down 0-2 in the series. Tonight is do or die. My muscles are coiled tight, my pulse a steady, heavy thud in my ears. I roll my shoulders, feeling the weight of my gear settle into place. Every inch of me is primed for battle.

This is what I do. I hit. I shut down plays. I break wills.

So why the fuck is my head a thousand miles away?

Because I know where Erin is right now.

Probably in my house. In my garden. With Luka.

Focus, asshole.

Across the ice, The Titans’ golden boy glides past our blue line during warm-ups, that trademark smirk plastered on his face. Blake White has been lighting us up all series. Married to a rock star, featured in magazines, living the dream. The kind of guy people love to love.

Not me.

Tonight, I’m hunting.

“You good?” Liam mutters as we take position for the first faceoff.

I grunt something that’s either Russian or straight-up violent intent.

The puck drops.

White’s line comes out flying. He’s fast, I’ll give him that, but I’m already reading his eyes, tracking the play before it even forms. He winds up for one of those cross-ice passes he’s famous for—not happening. I step up, intercepting him clean. He barely has time to register what’s happening before my shoulder slams into his chest, sending him sprawling on his ass at center ice.

The crowd erupts.

Perfect. Let them hate. Hate is clean. Simple. Better than the tangled mess in my chest every time I think about Erin leaving.

Next shift, White tries to dangle through the neutral zone. Nope. I hold the blue line, daring him to come at me. He does. Bad move. My hip check sends him flying, his stick cartwheeling across the ice.

He pops up fast, panting, eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

“Someone’s feeling frisky,” he goads. “Saw your nanny’s latest video. Girl’s got talent.”

I tighten my grip on my stick.

“But that Croatian dude?” White continues, voice all casual arrogance. “Bit handsy with the demonstrations, don’t you think?”

Red bleeds into my vision.

My pulse slows. My focus sharpens.

I wait. Track him as he slips behind our defense. He thinks he’s got a lane—he doesn’t. My skates carve deep into the ice as I pivot, cutting him off. He turns too late. I drive forward, channeling every ounce of rage into the hit.

The collision is seismic.

White’s body explodes against the boards, the impact rattling the glass, shaking the entire arena.

His gloves drop first. Then his fist catches my jaw.

Not bad.

For a pretty boy.

I retaliate with a straight right to his mouth, sending his head snapping back. Blood blooms instantly. He swings again—wild, off balance. I dodge, then land another clean one to his cheekbone.

“You’re done, Sokolov!” The ref’s whistle screeches through the chaos. “Five for fighting!”

Perfect. Five minutes to sit and think about how I just lost my shit over a guy running his mouth. Real professional.

The penalty box feels smaller than usual. Or maybe that’s just the rage still burning through my veins. My knuckles throb under my gloves.

White’s words hit where it hurts.

While I’m out here throwing punches, Luka’s probably back in his studio, dreaming up another fucking masterpiece—one that’ll have his hands all over Erin. Adjusting her bow grip. Fixing her posture. Watching her the way only a fellow musician can, reading every nuance in the way she moves, the way she breathes, the way she feels the music.

Like “Thunderstruck.”

Or that insane Mozart meets Metallica mashup—Mozart’s 40th Symphony crashing headfirst into “Enter Sandman,” a mix of elegance and chaos, sharp edges and raw power. A collision that shouldn’t work but somehow does.

Who even thinks of that shit? The asshole is brilliant.

And that’s the problem.

Because Erin thrives on brilliance. On creation. On the sharp edge of something new and electric. And Luka—fuck him—gives her that.

The rush of it. The artistry. The kind of connection that only comes when two people are completely in sync.

And I fucking hate it.

Hate that I can’t give her that part of herself. Hate that, as much as she fits with me, there’s a part of her I can’t reach.

Hate that I saw it coming.

I drag a hand down my face, pulse still hammering, the sting of adrenaline still hot under my skin.

Fuck him.

Fuck my life.

“Twenty-seven left in the period,” the timekeeper announces.

I barely hear him. My eyes are locked on White, who’s getting his nose checked by the trainer. Should’ve kept his mouth shut.

Coach is gonna murder me for this. We’re down two goals in a must-win game, and I’m sitting here bleeding testosterone all over the box.

The door opens.

“Back in the game, big guy.”

I explode onto the ice.

White’s back too, sporting a fresh bandage, looking pissed. He wants payback. Good. So do I.

He tries that cute cross-ice pass again.

Bad move, shithead.

I read it. Anticipate it. Step up hard. My shoulder connects with his chest just as he releases the puck. Clean. Brutal. Effective.

The turnover leads to a breakout.

Liam finds Adam streaking through center ice. I jump into the rush because fuck playing it safe. White’s scrambling to get back, but he’s too slow, too rattled.

The puck finds me at the hash marks.

One quick release.

Top shelf.

The red light flashes.

The crowd roars.

Just like that, we’re back in it.

I don’t celebrate. Just skate past White, who’s still trying to catch his breath. For a second, muscle memory almost takes over—hand to ear, call me gesture, mock cello playing—but the thought of it tastes bitter in my mouth. That celebration was for her. And now it just feels like some sad reminder of something I’m losing. Something I might never have had in the first place.

“That European pretty boy better watch his back,” Blake wheezes.

I lean in, voice cold as ice. “Your wife still recording with her ex?”

His face drains of color. Yeah. Two can play this game, rockstar.

The rest of the game is a blur of hits, saves, and near-misses. We grind out a win in overtime, clawing our way back into the series.

I should feel good. Should be riding the high of victory.

Instead, I’m storming down the tunnel, my blood still running hot, jaw still tight, knuckles still stinging from slamming into White’s stupid fucking face.

The locker room is chaos—half the guys still buzzing from the win, the other half foaming at the mouth to give me shit. And they don’t waste a second.

“Hell of a game, Sokolov,” Adam says cautiously, keeping more space between us than usual as he peels off his jersey. No grin, no jokes. Just the careful acknowledgment you give a bomb that might still be active. “That hit on White in the second? Pure rage.”

I rip my gloves off and launch them into my stall. “What’s your point?”

Finn and Nate exchange a glance—the kind that says tread carefully.

“Nothing, man,” Finn says. “Just haven’t seen you play that pissed off since...” He trails off, clearly thinking better of whatever comparison he was about to make.

Liam, always the captain, leans against his stall, arms crossed, watching me like I’m one of Ris’s questionable science experiments. “So, uh... What exactly did White say to set you off like that?”

I scowl, reaching for my water bottle. “He ran his mouth.”

“He always runs his mouth,” Adam points out, tone neutral. “Usually doesn’t end with you trying to cave his face in.”

Finn claps me on the back, grinning. “So tell us, big guy. What was that display of pure unhinged lunacy out there?”

“Seriously,” Nate chimes in, smirking. “We thought we’d have to scrape White’s remains off the ice with a fucking Zamboni.”

Liam, the traitor, doesn’t even bother pretending to be concerned. He just leans against his stall, waiting.

“Nothing. We won. That’s enough,” I mutter.

Adam snorts. “He chirped you,” he drawls. “Which happens every goddamn night. But tonight? You lost your shit. What was it, some deep, personal insult?” He grins. “Did he call Tolstoy overrated? Mock your tragic hero arc?”

“Did he shit-talk Bulgakov?” Finn adds, eyes glinting. “Insult your delicate poet’s soul?”

Nate strokes his chin, mock-serious. “Ah, but you see, our boy Dmitri only fights like that when it’s about—” He pauses for effect, then grins. “A girl.”

Silence.

Then Finn, the absolute menace, drawls, “Captain’s sister, perhaps?”

A fresh chorus of “ ooohhhh!” erupts around the room; someone whips a towel at me.

I snatch it out of the air and throw it right back. “Shut the fuck up,” I mutter, but my face is hot, and these assholes know they’re right.

Adam groans, clutching his chest. “Our big bad Russian is in loooove .”

“Cut it out,’” I warn, pointing at him.

“He’s so in love,” Nate agrees, shaking his head.

“Fellas.” Finn drapes an arm around Liam like they’re announcing my engagement. “Our boy is done for.”

Liam, at least, has the decency to not look pleased about it. Instead, he scowls, his jaw tightening. “Yeah, well, if he is, he better watch his fucking step.”

The room erupts into fresh laughter.

“And there it is,” Adam says gleefully. “Ladies and gentlemen, the big brother growl . Now you’re getting the full experience, brother-in-law ,” he taunts, emphasizing each word. “Karma’s a bitch.”

“Do you hear it?” Nate cups his ear. “Dmitri’s our pissed off grizzly.”

Liam shoots them a glare, then turns it on me. “You better tread carefully, Dima?—”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, or else you’ll end me.”

“No, Sophie will,” Finn corrects. “Liam will just help her bury the body.”

Liam grunts, which is not a no.

A new round of chirps is gearing up when the door slams open so hard the walls shake .

The room immediately shuts up.

Novak’s glare locks on me, the kind of look that once made a rookie piss himself. “Sokolov,” he growls. “What the fuck was that?”

I sit up straighter. “It was a clean hit, Coach?—”

“I don’t give a shit about the hit!” His voice booms through the room. “I do care about my top fucking defenseman taking himself off the ice for five goddamn minutes because some Muppet ran his mouth!”

The guys collectively wince.

“That temper of yours,” Novak continues, stepping closer, voice sharp as a skate blade, “is a goddamn weapon when you use it right. But tonight, you let that chirping moron get into your head and almost cost us the fucking game.”

I grit my teeth. “I know.”

“Do you?” Novak’s voice drops. “Because I don’t give a fuck if your nanny’s dating the entire first chair of the fucking New York Philharmonic?—”

Adam chokes.

Finn whistles.

Liam winces.

Coach turns to him. “Yeah, you heard me, big brother.” Then Novak turns back to me, jabbing a finger at my chest. “You play for the Defenders. Your only goddamn priority is winning hockey games. You clear?”

“Clear,” I grind out.

Novak holds my glare for a long, tense moment before stepping back.

“Good. Now go ice your fucking knuckles. And next time someone runs their mouth?” He levels me with a look. “Shut them up with your play, not your fists.”

With that, he storms out.

Silence. It doesn’t last long.

“Nanny’s dating the entire first chair of the Philharmonic?” Adam wheezes, nearly falling off his stall.

“Oh my God,” Finn howls, actually fucking doubling over.

“Dima, buddy, Coach just reduced your entire love life to a tragic orchestral arrangement,” Nate says through tears of laughter.

I groan, dragging my towel over my face, then risk a glance at Liam.

He’s seething. Dead silent.

Finn notices too. “Oh shit,” he whispers, eyes dancing with glee. “Captain’s gonna kill you in your sleep.”

“Or,” Adam adds, grinning, “just ship Erin off to a convent before you can defile her any further.”

Liam finally speaks, voice like fucking ice. “Both are still on the table.”

I exhale slowly. “Fuck all of you.”

Later, in my hotel room, my phone is in my hand, thumb hovering over Erin’s latest video.

The one in my garden. With him .

Their bows moving in perfect sync, trading melodies like a conversation only they can understand. This time, it’s something new. Something no one’s done before.

Vivaldi’s Summer —but distorted, fractured, twisted into something raw. A fevered duet where baroque precision collides with frantic, modern dissonance. One cello pushing, the other answering, building and breaking, sharp as a blade, wild as a storm.

Like some Shakespearean fucking love scene.

Then my screen lights up with a message. Galina.

It’s just a photo—Erin and Ris curled up on the couch, both passed out in front of the TV, the game replay showing in the background.

This is what I want.

I want her there, in my home. In our lives.

But how the fuck do I keep her without holding her back? Without scaring her off before she even realizes she belongs to me?

Galina seems to be on my side—hell, she might even be my best shot at pulling this off.

But even she can’t fix this for me.

I need to figure this out.

Fast.