Page 55 of The Pucking Arrangement

“The PTA meetings get very competitive,” Melissa confides, eyes still locked on the ice. “Last month, Karen brought homemade protein bars. Shaped like hockey pucks.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. A quick check confirms the girls are still lost in their playdate planning. “How…dedicated.”

“They were terrible.But she got to explain the macros to him personally, so…mission accomplished.”

On the ice, Dmitri’s voice carries over, low and authoritative, something about proper edge work. A muscle in his forearm flexes as he adjusts a kid’s stance, and my IQ drops by fifty points.

Melissa sighs. “The accent is really not fair.”

“Right? Like, pick a struggle.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “Sorry, I mean?—”

“Oh, honey.” Melissa pats my arm again. “We’ve all been there. Two weeks ago, I tried to explain the benefits of CrossFit to him for twenty minutes. I don’t even do CrossFit.”

I snort-laugh, officially tanking any attempt at aloof distance. Because yeah, I get it. Everything about Dmitri Sokolov is a direct attack on higher brain function.

“So, Monday?” Melissa asks, already typing in her phone. “Three-thirty? I’ll bring snacks.” She pauses. “Not protein bars, I promise.”

“Perfect.” I grin. “Maybe avoid the PTA mention next time.”

Her laugh carries across the rink, bright and unfiltered.

Dmitri immediately glances over. The look he gives us—equal parts suspicious and vaguely concerned—only makes us laugh harder.

“Protein pucks,” I wheeze.

“CrossFit,” she whispers back.

We’re still giggling when Dmitri glides toward us, and my heart lunges into my throat. His practice jersey clings to his frame, his movements lethal to my rational mind.

“That’s my cue.” Melissa stands up and waves at Dmitri, heading to the group of boys exiting the rink.

His dark eyes sweep over me, slow and thorough, lingering just long enough to leave a burn in their wake.

Down, girl.

“What,” he demands, his accent thicker than usual, “was that about?”

“Well...” My voice is embarrassingly breathy. I clear my throat. Try again. “Ris and Kaycee are having a playdate. Monday after pickup.”

“At our house!” Ris bounces beside me, beaming.

His jaw tightens. Just slightly. If I wasn’t hyper-attuned to his every micro-expression—and really, when did that happen?—I might have missed it.

“Right, about that!” I jump in, desperate to redirect before he can protest. “We should probably get going. My student’s parents said they’d be home after twelve, and with traffic?—”

“Where on the Upper East Side?”

He steps closer, and suddenly there’s not enough oxygen in this entire rink. His scent—clean, warm, masculine—wraps around me like a physical touch.

“Just off Park,” I manage, pulse wrecked.

“We should feed Ris too.”

Not a question.

His voice drops lower, as if we were going on a date. “Know a good place?”

My brain flatlines, scrambling for a restaurant suitable for both a six-year-old and a man who makes my entire nervous system short-circuit.

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