Page 123 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Papa! Papa! I had the best dream!” Ris’s voice is way too enthusiastic for this ungodly hour. “We were at the beach and?—”

The door flies open because my child has never heard of knocking, and I’ve apparently forgotten how locks work.

Ris skids to a stop, clutching her stuffed penguin, her eyes going comically wide at the sight of Erin in my bed, and my brain goes into full-blown panic mode.

Think, Sokolov.

I’ve faced split-second plays in overtime, dodged brutal checks from opposing players, taken pucks to the ribs at full speed, but nothing in my life has prepared me for explaining to my six-year-old why hernannyis in my bed.

My brain cycles through options at warp speed.Erin was cold last night.Risky. Too easy for follow-up questions.We were just talking.Flat-out ridiculous. Ris knows talking doesn’t require me to be shirtless.Erin is now officially part of my sleep-training program for elite athletes.No one would buy that. Not even me.

And of course, before I can land on something solid, my brilliant daughter decides to fill in the blanks herself.

“Oh!” Ris blinks, clutching her stuffed penguin. “Did you have a nightmare?”

I nearly sag with relief.Yes. Perfect. Let’s go with that.

But before I can confirm, Ris scrambles onto the bed like a detective closing in on a case. “Papa lets me sleep in his bed when I have one. He’s really good at chasing them away. One time, I dreamed a giant octopus ate my ice skates, and Papa stayed up for hours telling me stories about how octopuses are actually very nice and probably just wanted to learn figure skating.”

Next to me, Erin makes a strangled noise and vanishes under the covers, only a tuft of red hair visible. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“Something like that, Amnushka,” I manage.

Ris tilts her head, studying me like I’m an exotic zoo animal. “Is that why you’re not wearing a shirt, Papa? Did you have tofightthe nightmares?”

Jesus Christ.

Erin full-onwhimpersunder the blanket.

“Anyway,” she continues, completely oblivious to Erin’s muffled groaning, “in my dream, we were on Fire Island, and I was finally old enough to go to the candy store by myself—which I totally am now, by the way—and I bought ALL the gummy bears. The red ones AND the green ones.”

“Ris—” I try, but she’s on a roll.

“And Erin was there too! She was playing the cello on the beach, and the seagulls were dancing, which probably wouldn’t happen in real life, but it was really cool in the dream. Oh! Can Erin come to Fire Island with us? She can share my room if she’s still scared of nightmares!”

My heart actually stutters. Because I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask her exactly that. We spend every summer there—three months of sand, sun, and kids running wild on bikes. Kaycee’s family rents a house two doors down every August. It’s the kind of summer I wanted for Ris after Elena died. Safe. Happy. Surrounded by friends. Late afternoons, once the lifeguards are off duty, Kaycee and Ris are like a shot, launching themselves off the stands into the sand until the parents finally wrangle them away for showers and dinner.

And now, I want Erin there too. I want to wake up with her, the scent of salt air drifting through the open windows. Want to watch her play on the deck at sunset, fingers pulling music from the strings as the waves crash in the distance. I want her woven into our summer, our life—our everything.

But I haven’t figured out how to saycome live with uswithout sounding like a crazy person.

“For fuck’s sake,” Erin mutters into the pillow.

“That’s a bad word,” Ris informs her smugly. “Papa says we have to put a dollar in the swear jar when we say bad words. Except when he stubs his toe, then the rules don’t count because Russian doesn’t technically count as swearing.”

“Ris,” I try, because if this conversation continues much longer, Erin might actually explode. “Why don’t you go get dressed? We can talk about Fire Island later.”

“But I haven’t told you about the part where the ice cream store was giving away free?—”

“Now, please.”

She sighs dramatically but slides off the bed, heading for the door. Then she pauses, holding up Mr. Waddles. “Don’t worry, Erin. Papa’s really good at cuddles. And if you’re still scared tonight, you can borrow Mr. Waddles. He’s very brave.”

Before leaving, she spins back again. “Can we have pancakes?”

“I’m up,” Erin groans, emerging from her blanket cocoon with impressively mussed hair. “I’ll come make some. Though I should probably?—”

“Speaking of up,” I murmur, “I certainly am.”

---