Page 162 of The Pucking Arrangement

I’m finally ready to fight for what I want.

And what I want is her.

Not just tonight. Not just for the summer.

For always.

Chapter32

Victory Feels Like This

Erin

I’ve played in concert halls before, but standing here, in the middle of the Stanley Cup celebration, bow in hand, is the most nerve-racking setup of my life.

The new Italian cello, bought with my festival advance, my unexpected YouTube income, and the windfall of my nannying gig, feels heavy tonight. Each note, every vibration carries weight. Maybe it’s the crowd, the championship energy thick in the air. Maybe it’s the fact that no matter how many people are in this ballroom, the only eyes I feel are his.

Always him. Even when he’s pretending not to look.

“Is that ‘We Are the Champions’?” The event coordinator hovers, clutching her clipboard like a lifeline. “It sounds...intense on the cello.”

“Luka Havran’s arrangement,” I nod, shifting on the small stage they’ve set up in the corner of the ballroom, the pianist already warming up. “Thought it was fitting for tonight.”

The irony claws at my ribs. Playing a victory tune when all I feel is loss. Celebrating their championship while my own heart lies shattered at my feet.

I take a breath, settle the cello between my knees, and drag the bow across the strings. The melody rises, slow and mournful, transformed into something aching and heavy. The triumph of the song is there, buried beneath the layers of longing.

For a moment, the ballroom fades. The laughter, the clink of glasses, the gleam of the Stanley Cup under the lights—all of it dissolves. It’s just me and the cello and the pain that’s lived in my bones since I walked out of his house. Since he let me go.

“Erin! Erin! Look at my dress!”

Ris’s voice shatters my concentration. A blur of blue tulle crashes toward me, wild curls and breathless excitement. She’s beaming, the tiny music note bracelet jingling on her thin wrist as she twirls.

My bow stutters. The sight of her knocks the air from my lungs.

“You look beautiful, sweet girl,” I manage, my voice barely steady.

“Papa helped me pick it out special!” She spins again, the dress flaring. “It matches the Cup! And the team colors!”

I try not to follow her gaze. Try not to look. But I do. Of course I do.

And there he is.

Standing across the room, deep in conversation with Coach Novak, but his presence is like gravity, pulling me in whether I want it to or not.

He’s in a new suit that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. The playoff beard dark against his sharp jawline. His tie loosened, top button undone because he’s been running a hand over the back of his neck the way he does when he’s overwhelmed.

Like he has any right to look overwhelmed. Like he has any right to look this good.

My fingers falter on the strings.

He looks victorious. Unshaken. Untouchable.

And I feel like I’m drowning.

“Are you sad?” Ris’s small voice pulls me back. She’s looking up at me, those big, knowing eyes too perceptive for a six-year-old.

“No, of course not,” I say too quickly, forcing a smile. “Why would I be? Your papa and my big brother won the Stanley Cup!”

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