Page 5

Chapter 5

Poetry and Penalties

Dmitri

I pull into the practice facility after dropping off Ris, the cold April morning sinking its teeth into my skin like punishment. Like a reminder. My thoughts are a battlefield—Elena’s laughter echoing through one side of my skull, Erin’s voice curling through the other.

The locker room is full, but there’s a slow, heavy quiet to it—the kind that clings to early mornings, when bodies are moving but minds haven’t caught up yet.

Guys go through the motions on autopilot—stretching out sore muscles, pulling jerseys over pads, nursing oversized coffees like lifelines. The air hums with low conversation, the occasional yawn, the dull rip of tape being wrapped around sticks. Morning skate is always like this. A slow build. A sleepy sort of focus before the adrenaline kicks in.

But it’s too quiet. My thoughts have nowhere to hide.

Poetry used to help—Pushkin, Akhmatova, the greats who bled their truths onto the page, carving longing into something tangible. But this morning, not even Pushkin can steady me. Not even his verses about fate and love and all the ways a man can ruin himself help me make sense of this.

Because this morning, my daughter beamed through breakfast, buzzing with plans for Erin. What books to show her. What songs she wanted to learn. What stories they would read before bed.

Reaching for Erin like a sunflower turning toward the light.

Dangerous. Too dangerous.

Liam looks up as I step inside, reading me the way he reads game tapes—fast, sharp, catching details I don’t want exposed.

“Sleep well?” he asks, casual, but his eyes cut too deep.

I grunt, drop onto the bench, and grab my skates. The ritual of lacing up should ground me—it always does—but this morning, the ice feels farther away. My mind keeps pulling back to Erin’s hands on her cello, precise and confident. The same hands guiding Ris’s tiny fingers across unfamiliar strings. Patient. Steady. Kind.

Liam doesn’t look away, giving me space to speak. But there’s nothing I can say that will reassure him.

“About last night,” he starts carefully as we head toward the ice.

“Don’t.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean, but I can’t let him push.

“Dima—”

“What do you want to ask?” I stop abruptly at the boards, my voice cutting through the empty rink, raw and unsteady. “If I notice how beautiful your sister is? How she made Ris laugh? How she fills a room with light?”

The words taste like confession. Like surrender. My chest tightens, the weight of it pressing down, relentless. I drag in a breath, let Russian roll off my tongue—harsh, guttural curses I haven’t used in years. Like they might soften the truth clawing at my ribs. “Of course I notice.” My voice drops, quiet but rough. “I’m widowed, not blind.”

Liam stops beside me, his eyes narrowing. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t argue. Just waits, bracing himself for the words I don’t want to say.

We step onto the ice, the bite of cold familiar against my skin. The sound of our blades carving through the surface should steady me, but it’s not enough to drown out what’s coming.

“I saw how you looked at her,” Liam says finally, his voice low but edged.

“And I saw how you worried.” I skate faster, pushing into my stride, trying to outpace the conversation. My voice drops. “It’s been three years.”

His skates stutter. A rare misstep.

“Three years? What do you mean?” He turns sharply to face me, his frown deepening.

I inhale, slow and steady, before forcing the words out. “Three years since I came home from practice and found Elena on the floor of our music room.” My throat tightens, but I keep going, the memory cutting through me like a blade. “Brain aneurysm. The doctors said it was like a time bomb—one no one knew about. One minute, she was practicing for a performance, and the next…” My jaw locks, breath burning in my chest. “At least Ris was napping upstairs. At least she didn’t see her mother like that—still warm but already gone. Twenty-eight years old. Just…gone. Without warning. Without goodbye.”

Liam says nothing. Just skates beside me, silent and steady.

“You haven’t been with anyone since then?” His voice is careful but laced with disbelief.

“No.” The word is final. A fact carved in stone. “I made a choice. No relationships. No complications. Ris needs stability, not a revolving door of puck bunnies coming and going.”

“Dima…” He exhales, rubbing a hand down his jaw. Then his spine straightens, voice firm. “That’s a long time to be alone.”

I tighten my grip on my stick, knuckles white. “I’m not alone.” The words are harsh, a line drawn in the ice. “Ris and I—we built something solid. We have equilibrium. I won’t risk that for…distractions.” I shake my head sharply. “She lost her mother overnight. I won’t let her lose anything else because of me.”

Liam doesn’t respond right away, but I can see him piecing it all together—the fortress I’ve built, the way Erin slipped past the defenses. The way Ris is already orbiting her like she’s the goddamn sun.

“She’s smitten,” he says finally, quiet but certain. “I can tell. She lights up when she sees you.”

It hits me like a puck to the chest—unexpected, sharp, impossible to shake off. But it’s not new. I’ve seen it. Felt it. And that only makes it harder to pretend I don’t want to feel it more.

“She’s young.” The sentence scrapes its way out. “Talented. Her career is just starting. She deserves every opportunity—not the weight of a ready-made family. Or the ghost of another woman.”

Liam watches me, his expression unreadable. “I’m afraid she might decide differently. If you let her get close.”

The thought twists something deep inside me, but I shove it down. Lock it away.

“What she decides doesn’t matter.” I force the words out, steel and finality in my tone. “I’m grateful for her help. I’ll keep professional boundaries. It’s only three weeks.”

Liam doesn’t look convinced. Hell, I don’t even sound convinced. He catches my next pass cleanly, his expression is tight, his jaw working as he weighs his response. “Just…be careful, okay? Erin’s tough, but her heart’s fragile. And to be honest, I’ve never seen her look at anyone the way she looked at you last night.”

His words twist the knife deeper, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I think of Elena—of how quickly love can shatter, how easily it can slip through your fingers. And then I think of Erin’s laugh, the way it fills the room, the way it makes me want to take a risk.

“Some things,” I say softly, more to myself than to him, “are worth protecting. Even from ourselves.”

Liam doesn’t say anything more, but the weight of his gaze lingers as we finish our drills. The rink fills with the sounds of sticks clashing and pucks hitting boards, but my thoughts remain stuck, circling the same impossible truth.

I can’t touch her. I can’t fall for her. I can’t risk it.

As I leave the rink an hour later, Pushkin’s words are swirling in my head again, mocking my resolve: “Fate, it seems, always has its own plan.”

* * *

After the short skate, the team crowds into the video room, but I barely register Coach’s analysis of Vancouver’s neutral zone trap. My mind wanders treacherously, like one of Dostoevsky’s tortured heroes—duty warring with desire, responsibility with want.

But even as I note power play formations, I’m thinking of Erin’s hands on her cello, of how those same hands will soon be moving through my home, touching my daughter’s life.

“Sokolov?” Coach’s voice cuts through my haze. “Their penalty kill rotation?”

I straighten, grateful for years of maintaining an impassive expression. “They collapse low. Leave point men open.”

He nods, satisfied, but Liam shoots me a knowing look. Get it together , his captain’s glare says.

The ice bath should help clear my head. Instead, the cold sinks into my bones, dragging me back—Elena humming lullabies in the dead of winter, Ris’s tiny fingers curled around mine, the quiet promise I made to never let another woman close enough to break me again.

“Media in five,” the PR intern announces.

I close my eyes, letting the cold numb everything but the guilt. What kind of man thinks about a young woman’s hands while watching playoff preparation videos? What kind of father risks his daughter’s stability for selfish wants?

The reporters ask their usual questions. I give my usual answers. Playoffs. Focus. Team effort.

But inside, Chekhov mocks me: “Any idiot can face a crisis; it’s this day-to-day living that wears you out.”

By the time I’m cleared to leave, my nerves are shot—frayed like old stick tape that should’ve been replaced three games ago. I check my watch. Two hours. Two hours until I pick up Erin. Move her into my house. Upend my entire existence.

Beside me, Liam watches with the sharp-eyed scrutiny of a veteran center reading a play before it happens. “Don’t overthink it,” he says as we step outside. His tone is light, but the warning is there, tucked beneath the words.

I mutter something noncommittal in Russian, shoving my hands into my pockets.

“I’m serious, Dima.” He stops walking, forcing me to face him. “You’re looking at this like it’s fucking game seven overtime.”

“This is worse,” I admit, exhaling sharply. “Game seven, I know what to do.”

Liam doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smirk. Just crosses his arms, expression hardening. “Then let me tell you what to do now—be smart. Keep your distance. She’s my little sister, man.” His voice drops, low and firm. “Do this for me. Don’t fuck around with her.”

I hold his gaze, jaw tight. He’s not wrong to worry.

He claps my shoulder, but wisely says nothing more.

In my car, I check my reflection in the rearview mirror like some lovesick teenager. My daughter’s future nanny. My teammate’s sister. Twenty-four years old and full of dreams that don’t include instant motherhood.

I start the engine, heading toward the Village. The drive is pure torture. Every red light gives my mind too much space to wander into dangerous territory, like how her cello will sound in my too quiet house, or how her smile might chase away the shadows that have lived there since Elena died.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel until the leather creaks. The driver next to me at the light shoots me a concerned look when I start muttering in Russian.

“Just helping her move,” I remind myself for the hundredth time.

Right. Because having Erin O’Connor in my home, with her graceful hands and infectious laugh, around my impressionable daughter who already adores her—that’s totally going to end well.

Der’mo.

I park outside her building, double-checking the address Liam sent. My hands are actually shaking as I scan the panel of buzzers next to the door.

“O’Connor...O’Connor...” I mutter, finding her name written in a neat, careful script. 4C.

Pathetic. I check two-hundred-pound forwards into the boards for a living, but one cellist has me trembling like a rookie?

I press the buzzer, clearing my throat. “It’s Dmitri Sokolov.”

A beat of silence. Then the intercom crackles. “Oh! Come on up!”

I close my eyes, exhaling through my nose. Dmitri Sokolov ? Really? Did I think there might be another Dmitri showing up at her door? Maybe I should have given her my full patronymic too—Dmitri Alexandrovich Sokolov—just in case she wanted to file official paperwork on my dumb ass.

The door buzzes, and I catch it, taking the stairs two at a time. Four flights. What the hell was she thinking, living up here with a cello? No elevator? No problem, just lug thirty pounds of wood and string up and down like some kind of pack mule?

My collar feels too damn tight by the third flight. By the fourth, I’ve convinced myself she must have the legs of a very determined marathoner.

Then I hear it.

Deep, rich cello tones spilling into the hallway, filling the narrow space like they belong here more than air does. Bach. A prelude, played with the kind of aching precision that makes my chest squeeze. She must be getting in one last practice before I arrive.

I pause outside 4C, letting myself listen for just a second longer than I should. Passion. Control. Perfection.

Like Elena used to sing?—

Nyet . Stop.

I knock. Too hard. The music cuts off like a guillotine.

“Just a second!” Rustling. Movement.

The door swings open, and— Bozhe moy .

She’s standing there in leggings and an oversized sweater that’s slipping off one shoulder, her hair piled into some kind of messy knot with rogue pieces escaping. Her skin glows in the muted light from the window. She looks soft. She looks like trouble.

“Hi!” Her smile is bright, but it dims slightly when she sees my expression.

Because, of course, I’m scowling.

“Ready?” I manage, voice gruff.

“Almost.” She gestures to a neat stack of boxes and a suitcase by the window. “Just need to pack up my cello?—”

“We are on a schedule,” I cut her off, clinging to structure, to anything other than the fact that her apartment smells like her. Vanilla. Rosin. Pure fucking temptation. “Ris has skating. Time is important.”

Stop being an ass.

But I can’t seem to snap out of it. The whole scene—the cozy apartment, the way she looks in this soft, undone state—feels like a threat to my control. So, I do what I do best: I build walls.

“I’ll get these,” I mutter, striding toward her luggage and—fuck.

My elbow clips a pile of sheet music. Pages explode across the floor like confetti at the worst party imaginable.

“ Bozhe moy .” I drop to my knees, snatching papers.

She kneels too. Our hands brush as we both reach for the same page.

A jolt snaps through me, sharp and electric, stealing my breath.

She jerks back like she felt it too, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. Solnyshko , my mind whispers traitorously, because the sunlight hits her just right, making her glow like something precious.

I shove the thought away. Hard.

“Sorry,” we say at the same time.

“I’ll get it,” I snap. Too sharp, too quick.

Her fingers pull back, hurt flickering across her face.

Perfect. Now you’re scaring her.

I shove the pages together in a messy, totally unhelpful stack. She watches with wide eyes, like I just committed a crime against organization.

But still—she reaches to help.

Still warm. Still patient. Still looking at me like I’m not a giant disaster barely holding his shit together.

“Let me drive myself,” she says as we head downstairs. “My Honda’s just around the corner?—”

“No.”

Her eyebrows lift.

“You are not hauling a cello and a suitcase down four flights and stuffing them into your tiny car,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. “I drive. You ride.”

She crosses her arms, tilting her head. “Bossy much?”

I meet her stare, unflinching. “You’re just noticing now?”

Her lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile, but she doesn’t argue. Good. Because I need something—anything—to keep me in control right now. And the way she looks at me? The heat in those eyes? That is dangerous.

“You will drive the SUV with Ris,” I continue, trying to push past the thought.

“But won’t I need my car to get to the city?—”

“The Range Rover is yours while you’re with us,” I cut in, my tone clipped. “For nanny duties. I have a BMW for myself.”

She blinks, clearly thrown.

“It’s practical,” I say firmly, securing her cello in the back. “Much safer ride for a kid. You will drive this. No discussion. I need to know my daughter is safe.”

That you’re safe , my mind adds, unbidden. The thought is swift and possessive, tightening in my chest before I can shove it down.

She presses her lips together, nodding once. The warmth in her eyes dims as I shut the hatch, sealing more than just her belongings inside.

Solnyshko , my chest tightens, even as my brain orders me to keep my distance.

It’s for her own good, I tell myself, watching the tension in her shoulders, the way she stiffens every time I give a clipped direction. Better she thinks I’m controlling than…

Than what?

Than letting her see how badly I want her? How much I crave the heat of her laugh, the glow of her presence? How fucking terrified I am of what she does to me?

We move back and forth in silence, loading the last of her things. The air between us crackles, charged and volatile. And with every short, gruff command I issue, her bright energy dims a little more.

By the time we’re done, the space between us is cold. Professional. Exactly the way I wanted it.

So why does it feel like I’m already losing something?