Page 141 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Oh my God,” Finn howls, actually fucking doubling over.

“Dima, buddy, Coach just reduced your entire love life to a tragic orchestral arrangement,” Nate says through tears of laughter.

I groan, dragging my towel over my face, then risk a glance at Liam.

He’s seething. Dead silent.

Finn notices too. “Oh shit,” he whispers, eyes dancing with glee. “Captain’s gonna kill you in your sleep.”

“Or,” Adam adds, grinning, “just ship Erin off to a convent before you can defile her any further.”

Liam finally speaks, voice like fucking ice. “Both are still on the table.”

I exhale slowly. “Fuck all of you.”

Later, in my hotel room, my phone is in my hand, thumb hovering over Erin’s latest video.

The one in my garden. Withhim.

Their bows moving in perfect sync, trading melodies like a conversation only they can understand. This time, it’s something new. Something no one’s done before.

Vivaldi’sSummer—but distorted, fractured, twisted into something raw. A fevered duet where baroque precision collides with frantic, modern dissonance. One cello pushing, the other answering, building and breaking, sharp as a blade, wild as a storm.

Like some Shakespearean fucking love scene.

Then my screen lights up with a message.Galina.

It’s just a photo—Erin and Ris curled up on the couch, both passed out in front of the TV, the game replay showing in the background.

This is what I want.

I want her there, in my home. In our lives.

But how the fuck do I keep her without holding her back? Without scaring her off before she even realizes she belongs to me?

Galina seems to be on my side—hell, she might even be my best shot at pulling this off.

But even she can’t fix this for me.

I need to figure this out.

Fast.

Chapter29

Leaving Home

Erin

My suitcases stand by the door, packed and zipped tight, like they’re holding in everything I’ve spilled into this house over the past several weeks. I’ve checked three times to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, but I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m leaving the most essential parts of myself behind.

Like my heart. Lodged somewhere between a Russian defenseman’s ribs and a six-year-old’s stuffed animal collection.

“Are you sure you have to go?”

Ris hovers in the doorway, hugging Mr. Waddles to her chest, her blonde curls wild from sleep. She’s already dressed for the day, but she’s still wearing her bear slippers, as if she hasn’t quite committed to morning yet.

“You could keep sleeping in Papa’s room,” she suggests, hopeful. “He doesn’t snore. I checked.”

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