Page 53 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Secret cheese?” Dmitri’s voice holds a hint of amusement. “You conspire against my meal plan?”

“Just a sprinkle of feta,” I say, already reaching for it. “The protein macros will still work out.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You know my macros?”

I busy myself with the skillet, willing my cheeks not to flush. “I may have a few hockey players in my inner family circle—you know,like both my brothers?”

His expression shifts slightly. “Brothers.” He sets Ris down. “You have more than one?”

“Yes, Kieran. He’s at BU. Playing college hockey.”

“Papa blocked three shots!” Ris clambers onto a barstool, kicking her legs. “And he didn’t even fall down once!”

“Very impressive.” I slide two plates in front of them, loaded with protein and enough fuel to power a six-year-old and a professional athlete through the morning. “By the way, one of my middle school students is selling a child-sized cello. Think you’d want to check it out for Ris?”

Dmitri sets Ris down in her chair, arching a brow. “Ready for lessons,zvyozdochka?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” She bounces excitedly, nearly toppling her juice cup.

I grin. “They’re on the Upper East Side. We could swing by today and check it out?”

Dmitri nods, considering. “I have coaching at ten. But after?”

“Perfect.” I reach for my phone. “I’ll text them and see when they’re around.”

“Your class is gonna be so excited!” Ris says through a mouthful of eggs. “They watch all the games, and they love when Papa goesboom!”

“Chewing first,”Dmitri and I say in unison.

Our eyes meet.

Something crackles between us.

Dmitri breaks the moment first. “We should get ready.” He stands, and Ris thunders upstairs, leaving the kitchen thick with tension.

“Wear something warm,” he says finally. “The rink gets cold.”

Before I can respond, Ris’s voice carries down.

“Papa! I can’t find my lucky hockey socks!”

“Under the bed,” he calls back. “Where you always leave them.”

“They’re not there!”

“Second drawer, then.”

“Those aren’t the lucky ones!”

He mutters something in Russian that is definitely not child-friendly.

Then, at the stairs, he pauses. Turns back.

“We’re leaving around nine. Can you be ready?”

I nod, but my body is still burning, my pulse still pounding in my throat.

Because if I thought this morning was hard to get through, being trapped in a car with Dmitri Sokolov after that?

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