Page 47 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Your positioning’s off,” Coach barks, his glare slicing through me. “Less staring at the box, more focusing on the game.”

“Da, Coach.”

I clamp my jaw shut and force myself through the rest of warm-ups.

One drill at a time. One shift at a time. One fucking breath at a time.

Don’t look up again.

But I do.

Just once.

And it’s worse.

Erin is leaning in to talk to Ris, her expression animated, hands moving as she explains something. And my daughter—my cautious, reserved, slow-to-trust daughter—looks at her with pure adoration.

Something inside me cracks.

They look like family.

They feel like family.

The realization wrecks me. Hits harder than a crosscheck to the ribs.

I stumble, and Liam notices. His gaze sharpens. “The fuck was that?”

“Nothing,” I grit out.

He doesn’t buy it.

“You good?” he asks as we hit the tunnel.

I take a breath. Lie. Keep it simple.

“Just…realizing some things.”

His expression hardens. “Let me help you out with that realization, man,” he says flatly. “This? You and her? No.”

A muscle in my jaw ticks. “I didn’t say anything is happening.”

“You didn’t have to.” His voice is steel. “She’s my sister, D. She’s important to me.”

He stops himself and exhales hard. He doesn’t want to say what we both fucking know.

That this isn’t casual. That Erin O’Connor isn’t a quick, forgettable distraction.

“You’ve got too much on your plate already,” he says, quieter now, but no less firm. “I know you don’t fool around. And honestly, that’s the problem. She’s too young for something serious.”

I know he’s right. But it doesn’t stop the fire in my gut. Doesn’t stop me from wanting her anyway.

The buzzer sounds, calling us back to the ice. We skate out for the anthem, and I find them one last time.

Erin has her arm wrapped around Ris, swaying slightly as she sings along. My daughter is tucked into her side like she belongs there. Like she’s already ours.

The thought destroys me.

Because I want it to be true.

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