Page 30 of The Pucking Arrangement

Erin sighs dramatically, flashing me a look. “I’m not much of a cook, but I’d love to learn some of these dishes. You know, for when you’re away at games.”

The thought hits harder than I expect.

Erin in my kitchen. Sleeves rolled up, barefoot, hair twisted into a messy bun. Standing where Elena once stood.

I grip my fork tighter. Push through the burn in my chest.

“I can show you,” I hear myself say before I can stop the words. My voice is raspy. “The basics,” I add quickly, forcing my tone to neutral. “For Ris.”

Her lips part slightly in surprise, like she wasn’t expecting the offer. Like maybe she heard the scrape in my voice.

She nods, turning her focus back to her plate, but the air between us tightens.

“Would you like wine?” I ask abruptly, grasping for anything that might ground me. Like manners. Civility.Distance. “I have a good cab?—”

“Oh no, thanks.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to drink alone. Liam’s drilled the pre-game routine into my soul. No alcohol around athletes the night before a game.”

Bozhe moy.

She gets it. Without me having to explain, without needing reminders or justifications. No teasing, no pushing at the rules. Just…understanding.

Most people wouldn’t even think about it. But Erin does.

“Emma fell during her spin,” Ris chatters happily, completely oblivious to my slow-motion descent into madness, “but Coach says that’s normal when learning new jumps, and?—”

I grunt in response, stabbing my chicken Kiev like it’s personally responsible for this agony.

Erin’s gaze flicks to me, lips curving in faint amusement. Like she knows exactly why I’m unraveling and finds it adorable.

“The food is amazing,” she says warmly. “I’d love to learn how to make this.”

“Papa learned from Babushka,” Ris announces proudly, beaming. “He wasterribleat first, but now?—”

“By the way,” I cut in, desperate to think about anything besides Erin in my kitchen, in my space, “there’s a gym in the basement. Full equipment. You’re welcome to use it.”

“Really?” Her eyes light up, excitement sparking in them. “That would be perfect. I won’t have to improvise with my bands while I’m here. You know, playing cello is more physical than most people realize.”

I make the catastrophic mistake of picturing Erin working out in my private space. Skin damp with sweat. Muscles flexing. The way her breath would come faster?—

Fucking hell.

“Da.” My voice is clipped. Desperate.“Whatever you need. The code is 2019.”

“Papa exercises in the morning,” Ris pipes up helpfully. “Really early. Before I wake up. Or after, when he goes to work.”

And now I’m picturing running into her in the gym at dawn, both of us sweaty, flushed, and?—

I grip my fork tighter, knuckles white, fighting for control. Where the hell is my discipline? My self-restraint?

“I’ll clean up.” Erin stands and gathers plates before I can protest. “Since you cooked. It’ll help me learn the layout.”

I should stop her. Tell her to sit and relax.

But instead, I follow her, caught in her orbit and unable to pull away.

It would be better if I could get out of this kitchen. Make myself stop watching her as if she’s something I want to devour.

But I don’t move.

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