Page 13 of The Pucking Arrangement

My phone buzzes against the bench, Irina’s name lighting up the screen. Strange—Ris’s nanny never calls during the morning routine.

“Everything okay?” I answer in Russian, already stepping away from the weights.

“Dmitri Aleksandrovich—” Her voice wavers, and my stomach tightens. Irina also never hesitates or addresses me by my patronymic name. “My mother...she had a stroke. I must go to Moscow. As soon as possible. Even today, if I can find a flight.”

The world tilts. I grip the edge of the bench, my mind scrambling for balance. “Today? But?—”

“I’m sorry to do this to you, but Mama...” Her voice cracks. “She’s alone. The doctors?—”

Der’mo.

My pulse pounds in my ears. Playoffs start Friday. Brutal practices. Video sessions. Media obligations. Road games. And now this.

“Of course you must go,” I say, dragging a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. “Family is everything. But Ris?—”

“I’ve already called the agencies. They’ll send someone temporary?—”

“No.” The word snaps out before I can stop it, sharp and final. No strangers. “I’ll...figure something out.”

Liam looks up from across the weight room, concern etched into his face as he watches me pace.

“I can delay for a day or two,” Irina offers weakly.

“Go on the first flight.” My voice steadies, even though the ground beneath me feels anything but. “The sooner you are with your mother, the better. I will handle it.”

Somehow.

The call ends, leaving my phone feeling heavier in my hand.

“Problem?” Liam asks, though his expression says he already knows the answer.

“Irina’s mother had a stroke.” The words taste bitter. “She has to return to Moscow. Immediately.”

“Shit.” He sits up, wiping sweat from his face. “What about Ris?”

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Excellent question. Maybe I teach her to drive Zamboni? Bring her to games?”

“There are agencies?—”

“No strangers.” The words snap out, harsh enough to cut. I force a slow exhale, gripping my temper by the throat. “I need someone I trust.”

Someone who knows how to handle a six-year-old who still cries for her mother when the night stretches too long. Someone who can pull a smile from Ris. Someone who?—

Nyet.

The thought takes shape before I can crush it.Erin.

Erin, guiding Ris’s hands over cello strings. Erin, soft laughter cutting through the heavy silence of my house. Erin, patient and steady and kind.

Not an option.

“I’ll figure it out,” I mutter, more to myself than to Liam.

“Look,” Liam says, sitting forward. “Worst case, I’ll ask Sophie to watch Ris on Friday night for our first playoff game. She’s great with kids. She’d be happy to help.”

I shake my head. Sophie is fine. But she’s not Erin.

Pushkin’s words drift through my head, mocking:“Fate, like the wind, shifts when you least expect—one moment generous, the next merciless.”

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