Page 16 of The Pucking Arrangement

Which isnothelpful, considering I’m supposed to be preparing for the recital, not replaying his celly and wink.

I grit my teeth, lift my bow, and try again.

My phone buzzes. Not Tanglewood. Just more YouTube notifications.

Classical Meets Hockey—amazing chemistry between players and music!

That defenseman’s celebration is fire!

The way he looks at the camera at 3:42 is pure poetry...

Anyone else rewind that goal celly like fifty times? Just me?

Marry me, Dmitri!

I lower my bow, heat crawling up my neck. I’d spent hours editing last night, trying to keep the video professional and educational. Focusing on the mathematical patterns in the gameplay, the rhythm of line changes, the orchestral quality of team dynamics. Anything to distract myself from obsessively checking my festival application status.

And definitely not because I needed an excuse to watch certain clips over and over. For professional purposes. Obviously.

Watching it once more, all I see is Dmitri. The power of his stride, the fluid lines of his movements, the way his eyes found the camera—found me—after that goal.

The wink. Oh God, that wink.

My phone buzzes. Liam. Perfect timing, as always.

“Hey, big brother.”

“You free for dinner tonight? Seven o’clock?”

“Yeah, I could?—”

“Listen.” His voice drops lower, and my stomach flips. I know that tone. It’s hisbrace yourself; I need a favorvoice.

I sit up straighter. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. Yet.” A pause. “But I should give you a heads-up. Dmitri’s in a bind. His nanny has to fly back to Moscow—family emergency—and he needs someone to watch Ris for the next three weeks until his mother-in-law gets back from her cruise.”

My heart doesn’t just skip a beat—it launches into a full aerial routine. “And you thought of…?”

“You, obviously. You’re great with kids, you’ve got a flexible schedule, and Ris already adores you. Plus, the extra cash could help with that new cello you refuse to let me buy you.”

I glance at my current instrument—on loan from school after my cello met an untimely demise a few months ago. He’s not wrong.

“And I’ll say it again, Liam. I want to sort it out myself. A thirty-thousand-dollar cello isn’t the same as grabbing a cappuccino at Moonbeams.”

“Right, and this gig would get you a lot closer to sorting it out.”

I chew my lip. “So, dinner tonight is a setup?”

“Think of it as an introduction. No pressure, just come meet Ris properly. If it feels right, great. If not, no hard feelings.” He hesitates. “But…he’s really in a tough spot, E.”

I lean back, staring at my ceiling, where concert posters and playbills form a collage of dreams I’m still fighting to make reality. My laptop sits open on my secondhand desk, the video editing software paused on a frame Idefinitelyhaven’t been analyzing all afternoon. One where Dmitri Sokolov is winking and miming a cello in front of twenty thousand people.

My mouth moves before my brain catches up. “I’ll be there.”

After hanging up, I stare at my reflection in the window. A couple of weeks of nannying. It could work. Tanglewood doesn’t start until July anyway—if they even decide to give me a spot—and my teaching schedule at Marymount wraps up in June. Plus, the extra money wouldn’t hurt.

Three weeks. In Dmitri’s home. With his daughter.

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