Page 65 of The Pucking Player

Sophie laughs, leaning in too. “Oh? Any previews of these embarrassing stories?” She’s close enough now that I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. Close enough that all I’d have to do is lean forward just a little more...

The server appears with our dessert menus, breaking the moment. Sophie sits back, her cheeks flushed. The interruption lingers between us like a curtain drawn too soon, but I’m not ready to let the moment slip away. Sophie leans back in her chair, cheeks pink and lips slightly parted.

And all I can think of is how much I need to erase the distance between us.

“It’s way past my bedtime,”Sophie says as we pull up to Green-Wood Cemetery. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into a ten o’clock performance.”

“Live a little, angel.” I grin, helping her out of the car. “Besides, classical music is meant to be enjoyed after dark.”

“It’s winter, Liam. It gets dark at five.” She laughs as she takes my hand and follows me to theiron gates of Green-Wood, Gothic and imposing in the moonlight. A small group of people are gathering near the entrance, all dressed in that particular Brooklyn way that screams “we’re artsy but pretending not to try too hard.”

“This way.” I guide Sophie along the candlelit path that winds through the cemetery. The flames flicker in the light breeze, casting dancing shadows on the ancient headstones. Sophie moves closer to me, her hand tightening on my arm.

“Scared?” I tease.

She scoffs, but doesn’t let go. “Please. I’ve seen way scarier things in the anatomy lab.”

We descend the stairs into the catacombs, cool air enveloping us. The underground space is lit by hundreds of candles, creating an ethereal atmosphere. The stone walls and arched ceilings amplify every footstep.

I spot Erin setting up near the small stage area, her cello case propped against the wall. She catches my eye and waves excitedly.

“Tonight’s program is all Russian composers,” I tell Sophie as we find our seats. “Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, some others I probably can’t pronounce. Erin’s doing a solo piece.”

“This is,” Sophie looks around in wonder, taking in the candles, the architecture, and the intimate setting, “incredible.”

“Wait till you hear the music,” I murmur, my lips close to her ear. I feel her shiver, and it’s not from the cold.

The space only holds about fifty people, and we’re close enough to see the musicians’ expressions. As the first notesof Rachmaninoff’s Cello Sonata fill the catacombs, I watch Sophie’s face illuminated by candlelight. Her eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, completely lost in the music.

She’s never looked more beautiful.

And suddenly I’m not thinking about social media or her father or anyone who might be watching us. I’m just a guy, sitting in a centuries-old catacomb, falling hard for a girl who’s trying her best to keep her heart whole.

When Erin steps forward for her solo, my chest swells with pride. My baby sister, all grown up in her sleek concert gown, looking serious and professional, breathtaking. She adjusts her cello, takes a deep breath, and begins to play Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1.

Deep, resonant notes fill the space, bouncing off the stone walls. Erin’s completely transformed when she plays, gone is my goofy little sister who used to chase me around. In her place is a poised, graceful musician. Her eyes are closed, body swaying slightly with the music, completely lost in the piece.

I glance at Sophie and find her transfixed, her lips slightly parted in wonder. When Erin hits a particularly beautiful passage, Sophie’s hand finds mine in the darkness, squeezing gently.

After the final piece, we make our way backstage—well, as much of a backstage as you can have in century-old catacombs. Erin’s carefully packing up her cello, but her face lights up when she spots us.

“Liam!” she squeals, launching herself at me for a hug. Then she turns to Sophie, her eyes sparkling. “You must be the famous Sophie! I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Your performance was incredible,” Sophie gushes. “That Bach piece was heart-stoppingly beautiful. It’s one of my favorites.”

Erin beams. “Thanks! I was terrified. The acoustics in the catacombs are tricky. One wrong note, and the ghosts might revolt.” She wiggles her eyebrows dramatically. “Though I guess they’re probably used to terrible music by now. Speaking of, you should hear Liam sing in the shower.”

“Hey!” I protest, but Sophie’s already giggling.

“Oh really? Do tell.”

“Don’t encourage her,” I groan.

“He used to do these dramatic renditions of ‘All Star’ by Smash Mouth,” Erin stage-whispers. “Complete with air guitar solos.”

Sophie’s eyes dance with mischief. “Please tell me there’s video evidence.”

“Unfortunately, big brother here threatened to use my cello bow as a hockey stick if I ever recorded him.”

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