Page 17 of The Pucking Arrangement

Three weeks of trying not to stare at those hands.

Three weeks of that accent doing things to my insides.

Three weeks of?—

Stop.

I position my bow once more, determined to at least attempt being productive. But all I can think about are dark eyes and gentle hands and the way he saidMiss O’Connorlike it was music.

Shostakovich doesn’t stand a chance with me today.

* * *

The video hits one hundred thousand views by the time I pack up for my afternoon lessons. Not bad for a classical musician dabbling in sports content. Though, if I’m being honest, the comments have very little to do with musical theory and everything to do with the players themselves.

Liam, Dmitri, and Adam are getting the most attention, closely followed by Finn and Nate.

Not that I’ve been obsessively reading them. Much.

Teaching at the Upper East Side girls’ school feels like stepping into another universe—one where plaid skirts are perfectly pressed, laughter is hushed, and even the preteens have better handbags than me. The school’s instrumental program is elite, with private lessons and an impressive after-school orchestra, but here, music is just another résumé booster. A polished skill to complement their ivy league applications, not something they’re expected to chase as a career.

Still, my students work hard. They show up, eager to learn.

Emma, my last student of the day, manages a surprisingly solid run through of her piece for the spring recital.

“Great job,” I tell her, meaning it. “Just keep working on those transitions. It takes time to adjust to a full-sized cello.”

She nods earnestly, adjusting her bow hold with the kind of quiet discipline that makes me pause—just for a second—wondering if any of these girls will ever fall for this instrument the way I did.

The drive to Tarrytown takes forever because, naturally, there’s construction on the Saw Mill River Parkway. By the time I pull into the parking garage beneath Liam’s luxury high-rise, my nerves are already shot. Partly from the traffic. Partly from knowing who else will be at this dinner.

Actually, mostly from that second thing.

The doorman recognizes me—one of the perks of being the captain’s sister—and waves me toward the private elevator that opens directly into Liam’s penthouse. The ride up gives me way too much time to second guess every life choice that led me here.

My outfit? Casual but nice. Hopefully not trying-too-hard nice.

My decision to come? Terrifying but necessary.

My ability to keep this professional? Currently hovering somewhere between ‘unlikely’ and ‘absolutely doomed’.

The elevator doors slide open to Liam’s apartment, a masterpiece of glass and steel with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the Manhattan skyline. Sophie’s influence is everywhere—hockey trophies balanced by medical textbooks, fresh flowers in crystal vases, and furniture that whispersadults live here. The air smells like something amazing is simmering on the stove.

“In the kitchen!” Sophie’s voice calls out.

I follow the sound, my heart performing a drum solo against my ribs.

And there they are. Dmitri and Ris at the breakfast bar, heads bent together over a sheet of paper filled with simple math equations. Dmitri’s massive frame makes the barstool look comically small, but his hands—those huge, strong hands—move with such care as he points to something in Ris’s workbook.

Oh dear God, those hands.

I want to feel them on me.

As if reading my mind, he looks up.

Our eyes lock.

And just like that, every shred of carefully practiced detachment evaporates like snow in July.

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