Page 38 of The Pucking Arrangement

I exhale sharply, trying to breathe through the pressure in my chest.

When Erin slides back into the passenger seat, her cheeks are pink from the cool spring air.

“She’s amazing,” she murmurs, buckling in. “You’ve done an incredible job with her.”

The praise steals my breath.

I keep my eyes on the road, jaw tight, muscles locked.

“You’ll need the car,” I say gruffly as we pull into the players’ lot. “Liam will drive me home after morning skate. I’ll be back around noon.”

She nods, but the air shifts.

Suddenly, it’s thick. Dense.

My pulse slams.

She’s looking at me, wide-eyed, breath unsteady, fingers twisting in her lap.

Fuck.

“Dmitri—”

“Pre-game routine,” I cut her off, voice sharp, willing myself to not drag her across the console and kiss that soft gasp from her lips.

I’m out of the car before she can say another word, stalking toward the entrance like I’m being chased.

Liam waits, arms crossed, smirking.

“Rough morning?” he asks, oh so fucking innocently.

I mutter something extremely profane in Russian.

He barks out a laugh. “That bad, huh?”

I need ice.

Preferably an entire rink’s worth dumped directly over my head.

Maybe then I’ll stop thinking about how fucking perfect she looks in my kitchen, in my home, in my goddamn life.

This is going to be the longest game day of my career.

Seven hours until puck drop.

Chapter9

The Russian Restraint

Erin

The morning passes in a blur of settling in and trying very, very hard not to think about Dmitri.

Not about how he looked at me in the gym, like he was seconds away from pinning me down. Not about his voice dragging over my skin like gravel when our fingers brushed. And definitely not about how his eyes tracked me in the kitchen, dark and starved.

I practice. I unpack. I answer emails about upcoming gigs. I absolutely do not spend twenty minutes reliving the way his thighs flexed during Bulgarian lunges, or how the veins in his forearms bulged when he gripped the bar. I do not imagine those hands on me, gripping my hips, sliding up?—

Nope. Absolutely not.

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