Page 154 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Babushka, look!” Ris holds up her arm proudly, her face bright with unshaken belief. “Erin gave me this for my first lesson! It’s my musician’s bracelet—for good luck!”

Galina shoots me a look, her expression loaded with meaning.

“How thoughtful,” she muses, then after a beat, “Erin is a very special person, isn’t she?”

“The best,” Ris says immediately, with the kind of unwavering certainty only kids have.

She plops into her chair, legs swinging, and then tilts her head at me.

“Papa says she’s busy with work, but she’s coming back soon for more lessons. Right, Papa?”

The air in my lungs turns to concrete. I force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “She’s coming on Friday at four o’clock.”

“And then she’ll stay for dinner?” Her hopeful expression is a punch straight to the ribs.

“We’ll see, Amnushka. She might be busy.”

Ris frowns, considering. “But she likes your cooking.”

She climbs onto her chair, completely undeterred. “You should make chicken Kiev for her. It’s her favorite.”

Galina’s eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into her silver hair.

TheI told you sois unspoken. But deafening.

“Breakfast,” I say firmly, my voice a scrape. Desperate to change the subject. “Eat before school.”

Ris accepts the plate Galina slides in front of her, then immediately drowns her blini in maple syrup.

I frown, unimpressed. “That’s enough, Ris.”

She doesn’t even look up. Just keeps drowning.

“After my lesson, can Erin stay and help with my math homework?” she asks, completely innocent.

I barely suppress a groan.

“Amneris.”

“What?” She blinks up at me, the picture of wide-eyed, oblivious mischief. “She is more patient than you.”

Galina chuckles, placing a plate in front of me. “Your papa is very smart, Risochka, but even he admits some things are better explained by others.”

Ris hums, pleased with herself.

I stare at my own plate—a perfect stack of blini. I used to inhale these before every playoff game. Now, the thought of food turns my stomach.

“Sorry, Galina.” I push the plate away, reaching for the protein powder instead. “Training diet. Need to keep it clean.”

She narrows her eyes, seeing straight through the excuse. I ignore her, dumping powder into the blender. Almond milk. Spinach. Something I don’t have to taste.

“Since when do you refuse my blini?” She crosses her arms. “You ate them before every playoff game last season.”

“New nutritionist.” I slap the lid on, probably harder than necessary. “Very strict.”

Galina snorts.

“Strict, hmm?” Her disbelief could fill an Olympic-sized pool.

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