Page 41 of The Pucking Arrangement

Her voice carries effortlessly over the hum of idling engines. “Oh, look who it is!” A dramatic pause. “Ris’s new nanny.”

I paste on my best performance smile. “Melissa! How lovely to see you again.”

She eyes the Range Rover with a mixture of approval and calculation. “That’s Dmitri’s car.”

“He’s very particular about safety,” I say smoothly, channeling my inner Jessica. “Plus, his BMW isn’t exactly practical for school pickup.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, but before she can say whatever undoubtedly sharp thing is on her tongue, the school bell rings. A flood of kids bursts through the doors, spilling onto the sidewalk in a whirl of backpacks and sneakers.

Ris spots me instantly.

“Erin! We’re going to the game tonight!”

She barrels into me with all the force her tiny frame can muster, nearly knocking the air from my lungs. I steady her, laughing, hyperaware of the watchful eyes of the moms.

“We are,” I confirm, helping her into the car. “But homework first, remember?”

Ris chatters the whole way home, debating which jersey to wear, which player she thinks will score first, and whether Papa will do his “special celebration.”

I guide Dmitri’s Range Rover through the tree-lined streets, trying very, very hard not to breathe too deeply. But his scent lingers in the leather—warm, clean, unmistakably him. It seeps into my senses, into my bloodstream, into places it has absolutely no business being.

How many times has he sat here after practice, still damp from the shower, hands gripping this steering wheel?

Those hands. The ones that send men flying into the boards like they weigh nothing. The ones that could?—

Focus, disaster woman. You are driving a child.

“Papa said he has a surprise for me!” Ris announces, kicking her feet excitedly against her booster seat.

“Is that right?” I keep my voice light, even as my pulse jumps at the thought of seeing him. “Then we better get you home so you can find out what it is.”

The second I pull into the driveway, Ris is scrambling out before I can even put the car in park.

“Papa! We’re home!”

I take a second to gather myself before following her inside. But the moment I step through the front door, my rational mind gets steamrolled by a tidal wave of hormones.

Because there he is.

Dmitri Sokolov, sprawled on the living room couch, one arm draped over the backrest, the other resting on a book—long fingers idly stroking the spine.

His long legs are spread just enough to send my brain straight into the gutter. And those jeans—worn denim hugging thick, powerful thighs—make it downright impossible to climb back out.

Then I catch a glimpse of the cover.

Boris Pasternak.

I don’t speak Russian, but I recognize that name.Poetry. And judging by the worn edges and softened spine, this isn’t some prop for a brooding hockey player aesthetic—he’s read this book. Loved it. Held it in his hands enough times for the paper to remember his touch.

I swallow hard.

The late afternoon sun catches the sharp edge of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth, turning him into something out of a fever dream. This is the kind of man who ruins you for all other men.

Get. It. Together.

“Papa!”

Ris launches herself at him. Dmitri barely blinks before catching her mid-air, setting his book aside like an afterthought.

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