Page 42 of The Pucking Arrangement

“There’s my little star,” he murmurs, his voice deep and thick with affection.

I swear to God, I feel it everywhere.

“How was school?”

“Good! We learned about planets, and I drew Saturn! Miss Kelly said mine had the best rings in the whole class!”

Dmitri’s entire face softens, like she’s just handed him the universe.

And that right there—that quiet, unguarded tenderness does something reckless to me.

Because this is the Dmitri the cameras never see.

The man who reads poetry.

Who looks at his daughter like she hung the damn moon.

“Ah,” he murmurs, reaching behind the couch. “Speaking of stars...”

He pulls out a tiny Defenders jersey, perfectly miniaturized, his own #55 emblazoned on the back with SOKOLOV stitched across the shoulders.

I don’t know whose heart melts faster—Ris’s or mine. But she doesn’t hold back, letting out a squeal so high-pitched I’m surprised the windows don’t shatter. “It has my name!”

“Now everyone will know you’re my biggest fan.”

He helps her slip it on, his huge hands careful with the delicate fabric, his touch so impossibly gentle that my heart stutters.

Fuck, I want his jersey on me.

I want those hands on me.

“Erin!” Ris twirls, beaming. “Look! Just like Papa’s!”

I force my throat to work. “Very cool,” I manage, gripping the back of the chair so I don’t collapse into it. “Perfect for tonight’s game.”

Dmitri stands, and my pulse jumps. Becausedamn.

His henley clings to the solid cut of his torso, his jeans riding low on his hips, the perfect mix of softness and power. And then—then—his eyes catch mine, and suddenly the whole room feels electric.

“So, I’ll see you guys there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” My voice comes out breathier than I mean it to.

He steps closer, and my fingers tighten around the chair, a useless attempt to steady myself.

“Good,” he murmurs. His eyes flick over my face, as if searching for something, as ifmemorizingme. “Having you there…” He pauses, then softer, “It matters.”

My stomach flips.

There’s a raw, barely restrained edge in his voice, a crack in the armor he’s so determined to keep in place. And just like that, I know, without a single shred of doubt, he’s struggling too. This isn’t just me spiraling over his broad shoulders, his big hands, or the way his voice wraps around my name like a caress.

This is him, trying so damn hard to hold the line.

But damn it, I don’t want him to.

I want to wreck him.

I want to push him to the edge and watch him shatter.

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