Page 22 of The Pucking Arrangement

“I saw how you looked at her,” Liam says finally, his voice low but edged.

“And I saw how you worried.” I skate faster, pushing into my stride, trying to outpace the conversation. My voice drops. “It’s been three years.”

His skates stutter. A rare misstep.

“Three years? What do you mean?” He turns sharply to face me, his frown deepening.

I inhale, slow and steady, before forcing the words out. “Three years since I came home from practice and found Elena on the floor of our music room.” My throat tightens, but I keep going, the memory cutting through me like a blade. “Brain aneurysm. The doctors said it was like a time bomb—one no one knew about. One minute, she was practicing for a performance, and the next…” My jaw locks, breath burning in my chest. “At least Ris was napping upstairs. At least she didn’t see her mother like that—still warm but already gone. Twenty-eight years old. Just…gone. Without warning. Without goodbye.”

Liam says nothing. Just skates beside me, silent and steady.

“You haven’t been with anyone since then?” His voice is careful but laced with disbelief.

“No.” The word is final. A fact carved in stone. “I made a choice. No relationships. No complications. Ris needs stability, not a revolving door of puck bunnies coming and going.”

“Dima…” He exhales, rubbing a hand down his jaw. Then his spine straightens, voice firm. “That’s a long time to be alone.”

I tighten my grip on my stick, knuckles white. “I’m not alone.” The words are harsh, a line drawn in the ice. “Ris and I—we built something solid. We have equilibrium. I won’t risk that for…distractions.” I shake my head sharply. “She lost her mother overnight. I won’t let her lose anything else because of me.”

Liam doesn’t respond right away, but I can see him piecing it all together—the fortress I’ve built, the way Erin slipped past the defenses. The way Ris is already orbiting her like she’s the goddamn sun.

“She’s smitten,” he says finally, quiet but certain. “I can tell. She lights up when she sees you.”

It hits me like a puck to the chest—unexpected, sharp, impossible to shake off. But it’s not new. I’ve seen it. Felt it. And that only makes it harder to pretend I don’t want to feel it more.

“She’s young.” The sentence scrapes its way out. “Talented. Her career is just starting. She deserves every opportunity—not the weight of a ready-made family. Or the ghost of another woman.”

Liam watches me, his expression unreadable. “I’m afraid she might decide differently. If you let her get close.”

The thought twists something deep inside me, but I shove it down. Lock it away.

“What she decides doesn’t matter.” I force the words out, steel and finality in my tone. “I’m grateful for her help. I’ll keep professional boundaries. It’s only three weeks.”

Liam doesn’t look convinced. Hell, I don’t even sound convinced. He catches my next pass cleanly, his expression is tight, his jaw working as he weighs his response. “Just…be careful, okay? Erin’s tough, but her heart’s fragile. And to be honest, I’ve never seen her look at anyone the way she looked at you last night.”

His words twist the knife deeper, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I think of Elena—of how quickly love can shatter, how easily it can slip through your fingers. And then I think of Erin’s laugh, the way it fills the room, the way it makes me want to take a risk.

“Some things,” I say softly, more to myself than to him, “are worth protecting. Even from ourselves.”

Liam doesn’t say anything more, but the weight of his gaze lingers as we finish our drills. The rink fills with the sounds of sticks clashing and pucks hitting boards, but my thoughts remain stuck, circling the same impossible truth.

I can’t touch her. I can’t fall for her. I can’t risk it.

As I leave the rink an hour later, Pushkin’s words are swirling in my head again, mocking my resolve:“Fate, it seems, always has its own plan.”

* * *

After the short skate, the team crowds into the video room, but I barely register Coach’s analysis of Vancouver’s neutral zone trap. My mind wanders treacherously, like one of Dostoevsky’s tortured heroes—duty warring with desire, responsibility with want.

But even as I note power play formations, I’m thinking of Erin’s hands on her cello, of how those same hands will soon be moving through my home, touching my daughter’s life.

“Sokolov?” Coach’s voice cuts through my haze. “Their penalty kill rotation?”

I straighten, grateful for years of maintaining an impassive expression. “They collapse low. Leave point men open.”

He nods, satisfied, but Liam shoots me a knowing look.Get it together, his captain’s glare says.

The ice bath should help clear my head. Instead, the cold sinks into my bones, dragging me back—Elena humming lullabies in the dead of winter, Ris’s tiny fingers curled around mine, the quiet promise I made to never let another woman close enough to break me again.

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