Page 11 of The Pucking Arrangement

Sleep is impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. The way his suit fit at the Philharmonic. How he moved on the ice tonight. That body issue spread.

He’s just a guy, I tell myself.

A guy who looks at his daughter like she hung the moon.

Who quotes math principles to explain music.

Who fills out a suit like it was painted on him.

Who can probably bench press me with one arm and?—

Oh no, don’t go there, Erin. Not helpful.

I roll over, punching my pillow into submission. But my traitor brain keeps spinning scenarios.

How those hands would feel sliding up my thighs. Howmyhands would feel sliding uphisthighs.

What that accent would sound like rough with want.

Whether he’s as controlling and dominant in bed as he is on the ice.

Oh God, please say yes.

“I’m so screwed,” I groan into my pillow.

My phone lights up again.

[Sophie]: Sweet dreams...about Dmitri

I’m going to need a very hard workout and a very cold shower.

Chapter3

Game Plan

Dmitri

The 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.”

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