Page 138 of The Pucking Arrangement

The penalty box feels smaller than usual. Or maybe that’s just the rage still burning through my veins. My knuckles throb under my gloves.

White’s words hit where it hurts.

While I’m out here throwing punches, Luka’s probably back in his studio, dreaming up another fucking masterpiece—one that’ll have his hands all over Erin. Adjusting her bow grip. Fixing her posture. Watching her the way only a fellow musician can, reading every nuance in the way she moves, the way she breathes, the way she feels the music.

Like “Thunderstruck.”

Or that insane Mozart meets Metallica mashup—Mozart’s 40th Symphony crashing headfirst into “Enter Sandman,” a mix of elegance and chaos, sharp edges and raw power. A collision that shouldn’t work but somehow does.

Who even thinks of that shit? The asshole is brilliant.

And that’s the problem.

Because Erin thrives on brilliance. On creation. On the sharp edge of something new and electric. And Luka—fuck him—gives her that.

The rush of it. The artistry. The kind of connection that only comes when two people are completely in sync.

And I fucking hate it.

Hate that I can’t give her that part of herself. Hate that, as much as she fits with me, there’s a part of her I can’t reach.

Hate that I saw it coming.

I drag a hand down my face, pulse still hammering, the sting of adrenaline still hot under my skin.

Fuck him.

Fuck my life.

“Twenty-seven left in the period,” the timekeeper announces.

I barely hear him. My eyes are locked on White, who’s getting his nose checked by the trainer. Should’ve kept his mouth shut.

Coach is gonna murder me for this. We’re down two goals in a must-win game, and I’m sitting here bleeding testosterone all over the box.

The door opens.

“Back in the game, big guy.”

I explode onto the ice.

White’s back too, sporting a fresh bandage, looking pissed. He wants payback. Good. So do I.

He tries that cute cross-ice pass again.

Bad move, shithead.

I read it. Anticipate it. Step up hard. My shoulder connects with his chest just as he releases the puck. Clean. Brutal. Effective.

The turnover leads to a breakout.

Liam finds Adam streaking through center ice. I jump into the rush because fuck playing it safe. White’s scrambling to get back, but he’s too slow, too rattled.

The puck finds me at the hash marks.

One quick release.

Top shelf.

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