Page 131 of The Pucking Arrangement

Because that look?

That’s not about hockey.

That’s about last night. About the way he pinned me to his bed, mouth demanding, hands unrelenting. About how he ruined me in the dark, only to pull me close in the morning, pressing soft kisses to my temple, pretending we weren’t running out of time.

Galina hums slowly as she turns her attention my way.

“And you must be Erin.”

My name rolls off her tongue with that rich accent, and suddenly, I feel small under her gaze. Not in a cruel way, but in a way that tells me she’s not the kind of woman who misses things.

She crosses the room without hesitation, her curiosity open and unapologetic as she takes me in.

“The musician who has captured my granddaughter’s heart.”

My throat tightens. I carefully set my cello aside. “Mrs. Antonova, I?—”

“Galina,” she corrects, waving off formality like it’s a trivial inconvenience. Her gaze catches on my music stand.

“Ah, Saint-Saëns.”

Something flickers in her expression—something quiet, bittersweet.

“Elena adored this aria.”

Her fingers trail the edges of the score, lingering there, like she’s touching something that only exists in memory.

“She was still learning it, actually. Scribbled all these little notes in the margins about breath control?—”

She stops, her lips pressing together for half a second, then lifts her chin slightly, tucking whatever emotion had surfaced back into place.

“Did you know I used to dance this aria at the Bolshoi?”

She turns to me fully now, hands folded, eyes sharp and assessing.

“Dalila is a role that demands restraint,” she exhales, voice lowering just slightly, “until that finalmovement, wheneverythingbreaks free.”

And there it is. The echo of what’s happening between Dmitri and me, threading itself through the room, through my pulse, through the unbearable pressure of holding on to something that can’t last.

The control.

The slow, exquisite unraveling.

The inevitable fall.

The words slip out before I can stop them. “You danced with the Bolshoi?”

“Principal dancer,” she confirms, and there’s something almost wistful in her smile. “A century ago. Until Elena came along. Then I chose a different stage—motherhood.” She straightens, that dancer’s carriage still imprinted in her bones. “Some said I was throwing away my prime years. But I had already danced every role I dreamed of. It was time for a new dream.”

I shift, uneasy, Dubrovnik tugging at the edges of my mind—tours, concerts, dreams I haven’t touched yet, let alone outgrown.

Galina catches the hesitation in my face. “Ah, but that was my choice,devochka. My time. The world is different now.”

Heat prickles up my neck.

“I was practicing,” I say, already reaching for my case, grasping for an exit. “We’ll be playing the cello arrangement at the festival. I should probably?—”

“Stay.” Not a request.

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