Page 54 of The Pucking Arrangement

That’s going to be a whole new kind of torture.

* * *

The indoor rink hums with the scrape of skates and the excited shouts of tiny hockey players. April sunlight streams through the high windows, catching on the freshly smoothed ice, making it glitter like diamonds.

And then there’s Dmitri.

He moves across the rink with effortless control, fluid and powerful in a way that makes my mouth go dry. His practice jersey stretches across his shoulders as he demonstrates a stickhandling drill, and I have to remind myself that I am here to supervise Ris, not to ogle her father.

“Papa’s showing them how to stop!” Ris bounces beside me, eyes glued to the ice. “See? Like this!” She mimics the movement from her seat, full of pride and enthusiasm.

I force myself to focus on her, not on Dmitri dropping into a defensive stance, his thighs flexing beneath his practice pants like a personal attack on my self-control.

“Oh, there they are! Kaycee, look who it is!”

Melissa materializes beside me, her daughter bouncing excitedly next to her. She’s immaculate, wrapped in designer athleisure that hugs every toned curve, her expertly highlighted hair swinging as she leans in with a knowing grin.

“We absolutelymustget the girls together for a playdate next week,” she purrs. “Kaycee doesn’t stop talking about Ris.”

Before I can channel my inner Dmitri and grunt noncommittally, Ris lights up. “Can we, Erin? Please?”

Those big blue eyes are lethal. No wonder Dmitri caves to her every request.

“Actually,” I hear myself say—because apparently my mouth is working without clearance from my brain—“that might be nice. Dmitri’s away for playoffs next week, so maybe Monday after school? They could play at the house.”

Melissa’s eyes gleam like I just handed her a golden ticket to the Stanley Cup Finals.

“At Dmitri’s place? Oh, that would be simply divine!” She practically vibrates with excitement, and I swear she just mentally fast-forwarded to a candlelit dinner in his kitchen. “Isn’t it amazing how he manages everything? Coaching, playing, raising sweet Ris all on his own…”

I nod along, forcing a tight smile. Because of course, men like Dmitri get standing ovations for basic multitasking, while women doing the exact same thing don’t even get an honorable mention.

As Melissa continues her one-woman Dmitri fan club meeting, I try not to stew in my thoughts. But then, on the ice, he drops into a perfect defensive stance again, and we both lose the ability to function for a second.

I glance at the girls—still deep in their own world, debating which dolls to bring—then back at Melissa, who sighs dreamily.

“He’s just so…involved,” she muses, then turns to me with laser focus. “How did you end up sitting for them?”

“Oh, my brother asked me to help out. The team’s heading into playoffs, and they can’t afford to lose their strongest defenseman to a childcare emergency.”

Melissa tilts her head, her glossy lips pursed. I can almost hear the gears grinding.

“Your brother?”

“Liam O’Connor. You know, the team captain?”

Her mouth forms a little O of surprise. “You’re the captain’s sister? That’s how you know Dmitri?”

“‘Know’ might be a stretch,” I mutter. “More like occasionally stare at him while pretending to be a functioning adult.”

Oh God. Why did I say that?

Melissa laughs,patting my arm like I’ve just been inducted into a very exclusive club. “Honey, that’s all of us. Have you seen him do the thing where he wipes his face with his shirt?”

As if summoned by the sheer force of our collective thirst, Dmitri does exactly that.

A strip of abs appears. A ridiculous, unfair amount of abs. Someone in the bleachers whimpers.

It might have been me.

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