Page 21 of The Pucking Arrangement

Move things. Into his house.

While maintaining boundaries.

I swallow. Nod weakly.

“Pack tomorrow morning,” Dmitri continues, still watching me. “I’ll come by at two, after practice and recovery. Ris will go to figure skating with her friend, and we’ll pick her up on the way back home. Sound good?”

“Perfect!” My voice comes out alarmingly high-pitched. “Totally perfect. Everything’s perfect.”

Across the table, Liam mutters something under his breath that sounds a hell of a lot likefucking disaster.

And honestly? He’s probably right.

Because I’m so, so completely, totally fucked.

Chapter5

Poetry and Penalties

Dmitri

Ipull into the practice facility after dropping off Ris, the cold April morning sinking its teeth into my skin like punishment. Like a reminder. My thoughts are a battlefield—Elena’s laughter echoing through one side of my skull, Erin’s voice curling through the other.

The locker room is full, but there’s a slow, heavy quiet to it—the kind that clings to early mornings, when bodies are moving but minds haven’t caught up yet.

Guys go through the motions on autopilot—stretching out sore muscles, pulling jerseys over pads, nursing oversized coffees like lifelines. The air hums with low conversation, the occasional yawn, the dull rip of tape being wrapped around sticks. Morning skate is always like this. A slow build. A sleepy sort of focus before the adrenaline kicks in.

But it’s too quiet. My thoughts have nowhere to hide.

Poetry used to help—Pushkin, Akhmatova, the greats who bled their truths onto the page, carving longing into something tangible. But this morning, not even Pushkin can steady me. Not even his verses about fate and love and all the ways a man can ruin himself help me make sense of this.

Because this morning, my daughter beamed through breakfast, buzzing with plans for Erin. What books to show her. What songs she wanted to learn. What stories they would read before bed.

Reaching for Erin like a sunflower turning toward the light.

Dangerous. Too dangerous.

Liam looks up as I step inside, reading me the way he reads game tapes—fast, sharp, catching details I don’t want exposed.

“Sleep well?” he asks, casual, but his eyes cut too deep.

I grunt, drop onto the bench, and grab my skates. The ritual of lacing up should ground me—it always does—but this morning, the ice feels farther away. My mind keeps pulling back to Erin’s hands on her cello, precise and confident. The same hands guiding Ris’s tiny fingers across unfamiliar strings. Patient. Steady. Kind.

Liam doesn’t look away, giving me space to speak. But there’s nothing I can say that will reassure him.

“About last night,” he starts carefully as we head toward the ice.

“Don’t.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean, but I can’t let him push.

“Dima—”

“What do you want to ask?” I stop abruptly at the boards, my voice cutting through the empty rink, raw and unsteady. “If I notice how beautiful your sister is? How she made Ris laugh? How she fills a room with light?”

The words taste like confession. Like surrender. My chest tightens, the weight of it pressing down, relentless. I drag in a breath, let Russian roll off my tongue—harsh, guttural curses I haven’t used in years. Like they might soften the truth clawing at my ribs. “Of course I notice.” My voice drops, quiet but rough. “I’m widowed, not blind.”

Liam stops beside me, his eyes narrowing. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t argue. Just waits, bracing himself for the words I don’t want to say.

We step onto the ice, the bite of cold familiar against my skin. The sound of our blades carving through the surface should steady me, but it’s not enough to drown out what’s coming.

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