Page 3

Chapter 3

Game Plan

Dmitri

T he weight room is silent at seven a.m. Just the way I like it. No empty chatter. No distractions. Just steel, sweat, and the dull ache in my muscles that reminds me I’m alive.

Liam’s already here, going through his warm-up with the same restless energy I woke up with. But his comes from pre-playoff nerves. Mine has a different source. One I should not—cannot—be thinking about.

Except that I am.

Because my brain is a traitor. Because her hands keep sneaking past my defenses—the way her fingers moved across the strings, coaxing something raw and beautiful out of the cello. The lean muscles of her forearms when she rolled up her sleeves to guide Amnushka’s hands. How she bit her lip in concentration, completely absorbed in the music.

Bozhe moy.

I shake it off. Add another plate to the bar. The familiar weight, the scent of chalk and metal, the steady inhale-exhale—this is what grounds me. The rhythm of control. Of repetition. Unlike my thoughts, which are running completely off track.

I slide under the bar, grip it tight, and push. Weight and will. That’s all this is.

But Pushkin’s words creep in, uninvited: “A deception that elevates us is dearer than a host of low truths.”

I shove the bar up. For a brief moment, I almost convince myself this is working. That I’m not drowning in thoughts I shouldn’t have.

“That was some celly the other night.” Liam’s voice cuts through my focus, casual but edged, making my teeth clench. His captain voice. The one that demands answers. He steps into position behind me, ready to spot.

I rack the bar with a forceful push, the clang of metal echoing in the empty gym. “Amnushka wants to learn cello,” I say gruffly. “Your sister made quite the impression.”

“Yeah?” Liam crosses his arms, face unreadable. “That’s what it was about?”

“Just a thank you. For being kind to Ris.” I move to switch places. “She doesn’t meet many musicians these days.”

Not since Elena.

The familiar ache rises—memories of a house full of music. Lullabies and opera scales. Laughter. Life.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, I swear I still hear her voice, soft and lilting, coaxing Amnushka to sleep.

Liam slides under the bar, watching me in the mirror carefully. “Right,” he says, like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Just checking. Erin’s got big plans after graduation.”

“As she should.” The words scrape out. I add a small plate to his load, focusing on the sound of steel on steel, not the memory of Erin’s eyes lighting up when she saw me. Not the way she looked at me. Like she saw something worth unraveling. “She’s talented.”

Like Elena was. Like Ris could be—if she chooses. If I let music back into our home.

Stop it.

I retreat to the pull-up bar, hoping the burn in my shoulders will drown out the mess in my head. It doesn’t.

Liam watches me, waiting. Because he knows me. Knows I don’t talk about things that matter unless they slip out.

“Ris hasn’t stopped talking about the cello,” I say finally, trying for casual. My grip tightens around the bar. “Maybe it’s time she had lessons.”

“There are many good teachers in New York.” Liam racks his weights, giving me a long, knowing look. “Erin can recommend someone.”

None of them will be like your sister , I think but don’t say.

Instead, I pull myself up on the bar, arms straining, muscles burning. The ache is welcome—sharp, predictable, something I can control. Unlike whatever this is. This distraction. This pull.

Even as I count reps, she sneaks in. Erin, guiding Amnushka’s tiny fingers across the strings. Erin, laughing, head thrown back, cutting through the noise of the Philharmonic lobby. Erin, sunlight turning her hair to wildfire.

I shake my head, push through another set, but she lingers. Stubborn and unwelcome.

Pushkin’s words surface, smug as ever: “The less we show our love to a woman, or please her less, the more we can be sure of keeping her.”

Romantic fool. He wrote those lines but sure as hell didn’t live by them. No, Pushkin let jealousy eat him alive, threw himself into a duel like a lovesick idiot, and died for it.

Still…maybe there’s something to be said for his misplaced advice. Because today? It would have the exact opposite effect. Ignore a woman now, and she doesn’t pine—she blocks you. Or worse, leaves you on read and moves the hell on.

So that’s what I need to do. Keep my distance. Don’t show up. Don’t make her feel wanted. Or desired.

Except—I saw the heat in her eyes.

And I want it.

I know what it looks like when a woman teeters on the edge of falling. The quickened breath. The lingering glances. The way she leans in—wanting to be caught.

And Erin? She’s already there. One step away from tumbling.

So, if I do what Pushkin advises—if I feign indifference—she’ll walk.

The thought should be a relief. It should make this easier.

But fuck, it’s going to be a challenge because she’s already living rent-free in my head, and I haven’t felt this kind of pull in years.

Still, this is what I’ll do.

This is what I have to do.

My phone buzzes against the bench, Irina’s name lighting up the screen. Strange—Ris’s nanny never calls during the morning routine.

“Everything okay?” I answer in Russian, already stepping away from the weights.

“Dmitri Aleksandrovich—” Her voice wavers, and my stomach tightens. Irina also never hesitates or addresses me by my patronymic name. “My mother...she had a stroke. I must go to Moscow. As soon as possible. Even today, if I can find a flight.”

The world tilts. I grip the edge of the bench, my mind scrambling for balance. “Today? But?—”

“I’m sorry to do this to you, but Mama...” Her voice cracks. “She’s alone. The doctors?—”

Der’mo.

My pulse pounds in my ears. Playoffs start Friday. Brutal practices. Video sessions. Media obligations. Road games. And now this.

“Of course you must go,” I say, dragging a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. “Family is everything. But Ris?—”

“I’ve already called the agencies. They’ll send someone temporary?—”

“No.” The word snaps out before I can stop it, sharp and final. No strangers. “I’ll...figure something out.”

Liam looks up from across the weight room, concern etched into his face as he watches me pace.

“I can delay for a day or two,” Irina offers weakly.

“Go on the first flight.” My voice steadies, even though the ground beneath me feels anything but. “The sooner you are with your mother, the better. I will handle it.”

Somehow.

The call ends, leaving my phone feeling heavier in my hand.

“Problem?” Liam asks, though his expression says he already knows the answer.

“Irina’s mother had a stroke.” The words taste bitter. “She has to return to Moscow. Immediately.”

“Shit.” He sits up, wiping sweat from his face. “What about Ris?”

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Excellent question. Maybe I teach her to drive Zamboni? Bring her to games?”

“There are agencies?—”

“No strangers.” The words snap out, harsh enough to cut. I force a slow exhale, gripping my temper by the throat. “I need someone I trust.”

Someone who knows how to handle a six-year-old who still cries for her mother when the night stretches too long. Someone who can pull a smile from Ris. Someone who?—

Nyet .

The thought takes shape before I can crush it. Erin .

Erin, guiding Ris’s hands over cello strings. Erin, soft laughter cutting through the heavy silence of my house. Erin, patient and steady and kind.

Not an option.

“I’ll figure it out,” I mutter, more to myself than to Liam.

“Look,” Liam says, sitting forward. “Worst case, I’ll ask Sophie to watch Ris on Friday night for our first playoff game. She’s great with kids. She’d be happy to help.”

I shake my head. Sophie is fine. But she’s not Erin.

Pushkin’s words drift through my head, mocking: “Fate, like the wind, shifts when you least expect—one moment generous, the next merciless.”

And apparently, she also sits back and laughs when a man tries to stick to a plan.

Because I’ve barely had five minutes to commit to keeping my distance, and already—already—my brain keeps pulling me right back to her.

Unbelievable.

I drag a hand down my face. No. There are a hundred solutions to this problem.

I’ll figure this out. I have a whole day.

And Pushkin can go to hell.

My hands tremble slightly as I pull up Galina’s contact. One ring. Two. My mind calculates the time difference—she’s somewhere in Asia, finally taking that luxury cruise she and Elena had planned together years ago. It took her three years after losing her daughter to find the strength for this trip. Three years of helping me raise Ris, of being the maternal presence my daughter needed while we all learned to live with the Elena-shaped hole in our lives.

“Dima!” Her warm voice floods the line, wrapping around me like a childhood blanket. Even from the middle of an ocean, she radiates that unmistakable Russian maternal energy. “What a lovely surprise! I was just thinking of calling you and Risochka.”

“Galina Petrovna.” I step away from the weight racks, switching to Russian. “How is your cruise?”

“Oh, magnificent! The ship just left Singapore. You should see the gardens here—absolutely stunning. How’s my precious granddaughter?”

My throat tightens. “About that. We have...a situation.”

I explain it all: Irina’s mother, the playoffs, and my desperate need for someone I can trust with Ris. With each word, the weight in my chest grows heavier.

“Ah, Dima.” She sighs, the kind that says she’s already calculating how to fix this for me. “Of course I’ll come. But the earliest I could reach New York would be in three weeks. We’re in the middle of the ocean.”

The faint flame of hope flickers, struggling. “Three weeks.” I drag a hand down my face. “No, don’t worry. Enjoy your cruise. I’ll figure out something temporary. When you dock in New York…?”

“I’ll be there,” she promises fiercely. “Anything for you and Risochka. You know that.”

“I know.” My voice is quiet and calmer than I feel. “Thank you, Galina Petrovna.”

We say our goodbyes, and I lower the phone, staring at the screen like it might offer me another solution.

“She can’t make it?” Liam’s voice breaks the silence.

I nod, slumping onto the bench. “She’s in Singapore. On a cruise ship.”

“Ah.”

“Three weeks.”

“Ah.”

Somewhere in the building, a door slams. Practice starts in an hour. At three, I need to pick up Ris from school. And I have no plan.

Fate, ever the fickle friend.

Liam snaps his fingers, dragging me out of my spiral. “Erin.”

My head jerks up. “What?” But I’m not really surprised. Just thrown by the fact that Liam is somehow reading my damn mind.

“Think about it. She’s finishing her degree, mostly doing small gigs. She’s great with kids—you saw that yourself. Plus…” He shrugs. “She needs the money for a new cello, and she won’t let me buy it for her.”

Something tightens in my chest. Erin. In my home. With Ris. Every day for three weeks.

Dangerous.

“I bet she has performances,” I argue weakly, even though I was just thinking how perfect she would be. Thinking how much I want her there.

Not that I’ll admit it.

“So, we work around them,” Liam says easily. “Sophie can cover when needed, or my ma. But Erin might be just what you need. You said Ris likes her.”

I did. And that’s exactly the problem.

And I like her too. Way too much.

“I don’t know.” The words are useless because my mind has already gone rogue—Erin in my kitchen, stealing sips of my coffee, curling up on my couch, tucking Ris into bed with that soft, patient voice. She is exactly what I need. And that’s the part that should have me shutting this down.

Instead, I sit there, gripping the barbell, pretending I still have a choice.

“Look.” Liam grabs a pair of dumbbells. “Come to dinner tonight. Bring Ris. I’ll invite Erin, and you can see how it goes.”

“Tonight?” My voice definitely doesn’t crack.

“Irina’s leaving, and this needs to be handled. Unless, of course, you’ve got a better plan?”

I don’t. That’s the hell of it.

“Fine.” I mutter something in Russian about pushy Americans and their complete lack of subtlety.

“I heard my name in there somewhere.” He grins, watching me over his shoulder. “Seven work?”

I nod, already dreading it. Already anticipating it.

“And Dmitri?” He pauses, tossing me a cocky smile. “Wear something nice. Not your usual funeral director vibe.”

My curses echo off the walls, making him laugh as he does his next curl.

But as we continue our workouts in silence, my thoughts betray me again—wondering what Erin likes for breakfast, what music she’d play for Ris, how her laugh would sound at our table.

Three weeks.

That’s nothing, I tell myself. Barely a blip in time. I can handle having her in my space. Under my roof.

I attack the next set with renewed fury, but it’s useless. The damage is done. Because now I’m thinking about morning routines and shared coffee and a thousand other domestic moments I have no business wanting.