Page 166 of The Pucking Arrangement

The guys around me notice too. Kovalchuk elbows Matthews, both of them staring like they’ve never seen a cello before. Even Coach Novak, the king of indifference, watches with something like awe.

But they don’t understand.

They don’t see what I see.

They don’t know what it’s like to hear this woman laugh. To watch her walk around my kitchen barefoot, stealing pieces of fruit from my plate, rolling her eyes when I try to feed her protein shakes.

They don’t know what it’s like to wake up reaching for her only to find nothing.

The tempo drops, giving the illusion of softness.

But I know better.

She’s pulling me in, making me believe for half a second that I can breathe—before she takes it all away.

She shifts octaves, and I feel a punch to the sternum.

My chest tightens. My jaw locks. My pulse hammers in my ears.

And suddenly, I’m thinking about her hands.

The way they move. The way they shake when she’s overwhelmed. The way they curl into my shirt when I kiss her like I mean it.

The way they’ve always reached for me.

Until now.

The crescendo builds. She’s driving this straight to the edge, taking me with her.

And I—I can’t fucking move.

She plays the last note standing. Chin lifted, spine unbending, shoulders squared like a warrior casting the final blow. Triumphant. Unyielding. A conqueror.

My chest tightens. My pulse pounds.

Because I’ve seen that stance before.

In bronze, in the museum—Attalus, frozen mid-command. She lifts her bow like a sword, and the auditorium erupts around her. The ballroom explodes. Chairs scrape against marble as people jump to their feet. The applause is deafening, a tidal wave of sound crashing over her, but Erin doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t waver. She stands in it—owns it—the moment stretching, her body singing with the same fire she poured into the music.

Beside me, Ris is bouncing, yelling at the top of her lungs.

“That’s my Erin! That’s my Erin!”

My Erin.

Yeah. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because somewhere between that first lesson in my living room and right now, she became mine.

And I let her go anyway.

She looks at me one last time.

Like she’s waiting for something.

For me to do something.

Say something.

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