Page 23 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Media in five,” the PR intern announces.

I close my eyes, letting the cold numb everything but the guilt. What kind of man thinks about a young woman’s hands while watching playoff preparation videos? What kind of father risks his daughter’s stability for selfish wants?

The reporters ask their usual questions. I give my usual answers. Playoffs. Focus. Team effort.

But inside, Chekhov mocks me:“Any idiot can face a crisis; it’s this day-to-day living that wears you out.”

By the time I’m cleared to leave, my nerves are shot—frayed like old stick tape that should’ve been replaced three games ago. I check my watch. Two hours. Two hours until I pick up Erin. Move her into my house. Upend my entire existence.

Beside me, Liam watches with the sharp-eyed scrutiny of a veteran center reading a play before it happens. “Don’t overthink it,” he says as we step outside. His tone is light, but the warning is there, tucked beneath the words.

I mutter something noncommittal in Russian, shoving my hands into my pockets.

“I’m serious, Dima.” He stops walking, forcing me to face him. “You’re looking at this like it’s fucking game seven overtime.”

“This is worse,” I admit, exhaling sharply. “Game seven, I know what to do.”

Liam doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smirk. Just crosses his arms, expression hardening. “Then let me tell you what to do now—be smart. Keep your distance. She’s my little sister, man.” His voice drops, low and firm. “Do this for me. Don’t fuck around with her.”

I hold his gaze, jaw tight. He’s not wrong to worry.

He claps my shoulder, but wisely says nothing more.

In my car, I check my reflection in the rearview mirror like some lovesick teenager. My daughter’s future nanny. My teammate’s sister. Twenty-four years old and full of dreams that don’t include instant motherhood.

I start the engine, heading toward the Village. The drive is pure torture. Every red light gives my mind too much space to wander into dangerous territory, like how her cello will sound in my too quiet house, or how her smile might chase away the shadows that have lived there since Elena died.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel until the leather creaks. The driver next to me at the light shoots me a concerned look when I start muttering in Russian.

“Just helping her move,” I remind myself for the hundredth time.

Right. Because having Erin O’Connor in my home, with her graceful hands and infectious laugh, around my impressionable daughter who already adores her—that’s totally going to end well.

Der’mo.

I park outside her building, double-checking the address Liam sent. My hands are actually shaking as I scan the panel of buzzers next to the door.

“O’Connor...O’Connor...” I mutter, finding her name written in a neat, careful script. 4C.

Pathetic. I check two-hundred-pound forwards into the boards for a living, but one cellist has me trembling like a rookie?

I press the buzzer, clearing my throat. “It’s Dmitri Sokolov.”

A beat of silence. Then the intercom crackles. “Oh! Come on up!”

I close my eyes, exhaling through my nose. DmitriSokolov? Really? Did I think there might be another Dmitri showing up at her door? Maybe I should have given her my full patronymic too—DmitriAlexandrovichSokolov—just in case she wanted to file official paperwork on my dumb ass.

The door buzzes, and I catch it, taking the stairs two at a time. Four flights. What the hell was she thinking, living up here with a cello? No elevator? No problem, just lug thirty pounds of wood and string up and down like some kind of pack mule?

My collar feels too damn tight by the third flight. By the fourth, I’ve convinced myself she must have the legs of a very determined marathoner.

Then I hear it.

Deep, rich cello tones spilling into the hallway, filling the narrow space like they belong here more than air does. Bach. A prelude, played with the kind of aching precision that makes my chest squeeze. She must be getting in one last practice before I arrive.

I pause outside 4C, letting myself listen for just a second longer than I should. Passion. Control. Perfection.

Like Elena used to sing?—

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