Page 32

Chapter 32

Victory Feels Like This

Erin

I ’ve played in concert halls before, but standing here, in the middle of the Stanley Cup celebration, bow in hand, is the most nerve-racking setup of my life.

The new Italian cello, bought with my festival advance, my unexpected YouTube income, and the windfall of my nannying gig, feels heavy tonight. Each note, every vibration carries weight. Maybe it’s the crowd, the championship energy thick in the air. Maybe it’s the fact that no matter how many people are in this ballroom, the only eyes I feel are his.

Always him. Even when he’s pretending not to look.

“Is that ‘We Are the Champions’?” The event coordinator hovers, clutching her clipboard like a lifeline. “It sounds...intense on the cello.”

“Luka Havran’s arrangement,” I nod, shifting on the small stage they’ve set up in the corner of the ballroom, the pianist already warming up. “Thought it was fitting for tonight.”

The irony claws at my ribs. Playing a victory tune when all I feel is loss. Celebrating their championship while my own heart lies shattered at my feet.

I take a breath, settle the cello between my knees, and drag the bow across the strings. The melody rises, slow and mournful, transformed into something aching and heavy. The triumph of the song is there, buried beneath the layers of longing.

For a moment, the ballroom fades. The laughter, the clink of glasses, the gleam of the Stanley Cup under the lights—all of it dissolves. It’s just me and the cello and the pain that’s lived in my bones since I walked out of his house. Since he let me go.

“Erin! Erin! Look at my dress!”

Ris’s voice shatters my concentration. A blur of blue tulle crashes toward me, wild curls and breathless excitement. She’s beaming, the tiny music note bracelet jingling on her thin wrist as she twirls.

My bow stutters. The sight of her knocks the air from my lungs.

“You look beautiful, sweet girl,” I manage, my voice barely steady.

“Papa helped me pick it out special!” She spins again, the dress flaring. “It matches the Cup! And the team colors!”

I try not to follow her gaze. Try not to look. But I do. Of course I do.

And there he is.

Standing across the room, deep in conversation with Coach Novak, but his presence is like gravity, pulling me in whether I want it to or not.

He’s in a new suit that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. The playoff beard dark against his sharp jawline. His tie loosened, top button undone because he’s been running a hand over the back of his neck the way he does when he’s overwhelmed.

Like he has any right to look overwhelmed. Like he has any right to look this good.

My fingers falter on the strings.

He looks victorious. Unshaken. Untouchable.

And I feel like I’m drowning.

“Are you sad?” Ris’s small voice pulls me back. She’s looking up at me, those big, knowing eyes too perceptive for a six-year-old.

“No, of course not,” I say too quickly, forcing a smile. “Why would I be? Your papa and my big brother won the Stanley Cup!”

“But your music sounds sad.” Her little brow furrows. “Daddy says music shows what’s in your heart.”

The breath leaves my lungs. Because she’s right.

The song is supposed to be triumphant. But the way I’m playing it? It’s a confession.

“I’m just warming up,” I say, smoothing a curl from her face, but my hands are unsteady.

“When you’re done, can we get ice cream?” She bounces on her toes. “Papa says we can celebrate with extra sprinkles!”

I nod, even as my chest tightens. The thought of sitting across from Dmitri, watching him be the incredible father he is, pretending like I haven’t spent every night missing him?—

It’s too much.

“Ris, here you are. Babushka is looking for you. Please go back to her and stop running away without telling her. Erin also needs to prepare.”

The deep rumble of his voice rakes over my skin.

I freeze.

The air shifts.

I don’t have to look. I already know he’s there.

His presence swallows the space around me, the scent of cedar curling through my ribs like smoke.

I swallow hard, my fingers tightening on the bow. The cello between my knees is the only thing keeping me upright.

Because Dmitri Sokolov is looking at me. Really looking at me. And for the first time in weeks, I think I might shatter.

“But Papa—” Ris starts to protest.

“It’s fine,” I cut in quickly, desperate to avoid his gaze. “I’m nearly ready.”

“See?” Ris turns to him triumphantly. “She doesn’t mind one bit.”

His eyes lock onto mine, and everything inside me stills. There’s something in his expression I can’t decipher—something beyond the careful mask he’s worn since I left. Something raw and electric that makes my breath catch.

“Five minutes until we need you ready,” the coordinator reminds me, oblivious to the tension crackling between us.

Then Galina appears. “Here you are, Risochka.” She exhales, stretching out her hand. “Don’t run away like that again,” she admonishes.

“Ris, go with Babushka ,” Dmitri says, his gaze never leaving my face.

“But—”

“Now.”

She huffs dramatically but complies, taking Galina’s hand and skipping away through the crowd, her dress twinkling under the lights.

And then it’s just us.

“Congratulations,” I manage, hating how thin my voice sounds. “On the Cup.”

He nods once, a slight dip of his chin. “Queen.”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re playing Queen.” His accent wraps around the words. “For champions. You play it well,” he continues, his voice lower.

“Thanks.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, trying not to fidget under his steady gaze. “Luka’s been helping?—”

A flash of something—anger? pain?—crosses his face before he masks it. “How is he?”

“Good,” I say carefully. “Busy with arrangements. Festival prep.”

“When do you leave?”

“Next week.” My voice drops to barely a whisper. “June eighteenth.”

He nods again, a muscle in his jaw working. “You’ll be amazing.”

“Dmitri—”

“Two minutes!” the coordinator calls, bustling past with her clipboard.

He takes a step back, putting distance between us. The mask sliding firmly back into place. “I should let you focus.”

And there it is—the confirmation of everything I’ve been trying not to believe. He’s letting me go. No fight. No declaration. No reason to stay.

“Right.” I force my fingers to return to the strings, dropping my gaze to the cello to conceal my eyes dangerously filling with tears. “I should run through the piece one more time.”

“Erin.” My name in his mouth still does dangerous things to my pulse. “I?—”

But whatever he was about to say dies on his lips as Liam appears, clapping him on the shoulder.

“They’re calling for the team,” my brother says, his eyes darting between Dmitri and me. “Ceremony’s about to start.”

I still feel Dmitri’s eyes on me, but I don’t look up, blinking away the hurt. “I’ll be right there.”

Liam’s already steering him away, leaving me alone on the stage with my cello and the hollow ache in my chest.

I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the pain. What was I expecting? For him to fall on his knees? Beg me to stay? I’d made my choice, packed my suitcases, walked away.

And he’d let me.

The lights dim, spotlights focusing on the stage. My cue.

I straighten my spine, position my bow. This is what I do. This is who I am. A musician. A performer. Even when my heart is breaking, the music goes on.

The opening notes of “We Are the Champions” fill the space. Not the bombastic rock version, but Luka’s reimagining—something elegant and powerful, triumphant but tinged with longing. My gaze finds him automatically, standing with the team as they’re introduced. He’s watching me, his expression unguarded for once.

And what I see there steals my breath.

Want. Need. Something terrifyingly close to love.

But also resignation.

The crowd applauds as the commissioner begins the ceremony, but all I can hear is the music. All I can feel is the space between us, stretching wider with every passing second.

Why won’t he fight for me?

The questions linger, unanswered, as the music carries me away.