Page 139 of The Pucking Arrangement

The red light flashes.

The crowd roars.

Just like that, we’re back in it.

I don’t celebrate. Just skate past White, who’s still trying to catch his breath. For a second, muscle memory almost takes over—hand to ear, call me gesture, mock cello playing—but the thought of it tastes bitter in my mouth. That celebration was for her. And now it just feels like some sad reminder of something I’m losing. Something I might never have had in the first place.

“That European pretty boy better watch his back,” Blake wheezes.

I lean in, voice cold as ice. “Your wife still recording with her ex?”

His face drains of color. Yeah. Two can play this game, rockstar.

The rest of the game is a blur of hits, saves, and near-misses. We grind out a win in overtime, clawing our way back into the series.

I should feel good. Should be riding the high of victory.

Instead, I’m storming down the tunnel, my blood still running hot, jaw still tight, knuckles still stinging from slamming into White’s stupid fucking face.

The locker room is chaos—half the guys still buzzing from the win, the other half foaming at the mouth to give me shit. And they don’t waste a second.

“Hell of a game, Sokolov,” Adam says cautiously, keeping more space between us than usual as he peels off his jersey. No grin, no jokes. Just the careful acknowledgment you give a bomb that might still be active. “That hit on White in the second? Pure rage.”

I rip my gloves off and launch them into my stall. “What’s your point?”

Finn and Nate exchange a glance—the kind that saystread carefully.

“Nothing, man,” Finn says. “Just haven’t seen you play that pissed off since...” He trails off, clearly thinking better of whatever comparison he was about to make.

Liam, always the captain, leans against his stall, arms crossed, watching me like I’m one of Ris’s questionable science experiments. “So, uh... What exactly did White say to set you off like that?”

I scowl, reaching for my water bottle. “He ran his mouth.”

“He always runs his mouth,” Adam points out, tone neutral. “Usually doesn’t end with you trying to cave his face in.”

Finn claps me on the back, grinning. “So tell us, big guy. What was that display of pure unhinged lunacy out there?”

“Seriously,” Nate chimes in, smirking. “We thought we’d have to scrape White’s remains off the ice with a fucking Zamboni.”

Liam, the traitor, doesn’t even bother pretending to be concerned. He just leans against his stall, waiting.

“Nothing. We won. That’s enough,” I mutter.

Adam snorts. “He chirped you,” he drawls. “Which happens every goddamn night. But tonight? You lost your shit. What was it, some deep, personal insult?” He grins. “Did he call Tolstoy overrated? Mock your tragic hero arc?”

“Did he shit-talk Bulgakov?” Finn adds, eyes glinting. “Insult your delicate poet’s soul?”

Nate strokes his chin, mock-serious. “Ah, but you see, our boy Dmitri only fights like that when it’s about—” He pauses for effect, then grins. “A girl.”

Silence.

Then Finn, the absolute menace, drawls, “Captain’ssister,perhaps?”

A fresh chorus of “ooohhhh!”erupts around the room; someone whips a towel at me.

I snatch it out of the air and throw it right back. “Shut the fuck up,” I mutter, but my face is hot, and these assholes know they’re right.

Adam groans, clutching his chest. “Our big bad Russian is inloooove.”

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