Page 15 of The Pucking Arrangement

Not that I’ll admit it.

“So, we work around them,” Liam says easily. “Sophie can cover when needed, or my ma. But Erin might be just what you need. You said Ris likes her.”

I did. And that’s exactly the problem.

And I like her too. Way too much.

“I don’t know.” The words are useless because my mind has already gone rogue—Erin in my kitchen, stealing sips of my coffee, curling up on my couch, tucking Ris into bed with that soft, patient voice. She is exactly what I need. And that’s the part that should have me shutting this down.

Instead, I sit there, gripping the barbell, pretending I still have a choice.

“Look.” Liam grabs a pair of dumbbells. “Come to dinner tonight. Bring Ris. I’ll invite Erin, and you can see how it goes.”

“Tonight?” My voice definitely doesn’t crack.

“Irina’s leaving, and this needs to be handled. Unless, of course, you’ve got a better plan?”

I don’t. That’s the hell of it.

“Fine.” I mutter something in Russian about pushy Americans and their complete lack of subtlety.

“I heard my name in there somewhere.” He grins, watching me over his shoulder. “Seven work?”

I nod, already dreading it. Already anticipating it.

“And Dmitri?” He pauses, tossing me a cocky smile. “Wear something nice. Not your usual funeral director vibe.”

My curses echo off the walls, making him laugh as he does his next curl.

But as we continue our workouts in silence, my thoughts betray me again—wondering what Erin likes for breakfast, what music she’d play for Ris, how her laugh would sound at our table.

Three weeks.

That’s nothing, I tell myself. Barely a blip in time. I can handle having her in my space. Under my roof.

I attack the next set with renewed fury, but it’s useless. The damage is done. Because now I’m thinking about morning routines and shared coffee and a thousand other domestic moments I have no business wanting.

Chapter4

All the Right Notes

Erin

I’ve only been in this Village walk-up for two months—my first place after moving out of my parents’ Brooklyn apartment—but already it feels more like home than anywhere else. Maybe it’s the view of West 12th Street’s canopy of trees, or the fact that my neighbors are all artists who don’t complain when I practice the same passage forty-seven times in the same afternoon.

Between waiting to hear back from the Tanglewood Summer Music Festival and my few teaching hours at the Upper East Side girls’ school, the timing couldn’t have been worse for apartment hunting. But here I am, finally independent. Even if independence means checking my email every five minutes for news about the festival opportunity like it’s a dating app and I’m desperate.

I position my bow, trying—reallytrying—to focus on Shostakovich’s“Cello Concerto No. 1” for my graduation performance. The sharp, urgent opening notes demand my full attention, but my brain refuses to cooperate.

Sunlight spills through the window, warming my practice nook—really just a glorified corner of my studio apartment, where my music stand barely fits between my bed and the exposed brick wall that probably hasn’t been updated since the Carter administration. The acoustics are decent, but right now, every note feels off, my fingers sluggish, my bow arm tense.

I exhale slowly, resetting my grip.Focus.

But my mind? Yeah, it’s gone—completely hijacked by a certain hockey player with a voice that should come with a warning label for cardiac distress.

I scowl at my sheet music, willing myself to lock in. This piece isn’t just technically demanding—it’s relentless, all tension and drive, every note charged with something untamed and urgent. Exactly how I should be feeling about this moment.

And yet, all I can think about is Dmitri.

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