Page 49 of The Pucking Arrangement

I don’t know what they’re saying. I can’t hear a damn thing.

But I see the effect.

The flush on Erin’s cheeks. The way she shakes her head, flustered. The way she tugs at her sweater sleeve, like she needs something to do with her hands.

And then—then—she sneaks a glance toward the ice.

Toward me.

Jessica’s smirk widens. Erin swats her arm, still blushing.

My grip tightens around my stick.

Liam leans in, voice low. “Looking a little distracted there, big guy.”

I mutter something extremely unflattering in Russian.

“Save it for after the game.” He smirks. He fucking smirks.

The puck drops. I force myself back into the play.

Hockey first. Feelings later.

It almost works. Until Ris moves again, tugging at Erin’s arm. She’s saying something. Excited, insistent, gesturing toward the ice. Toward me.

Erin laughs softly, then she starts braiding Ris’s hair. She’s done it before, I realize. She must have. Because her hands move too easily through the strands.

Then it happens. Ris says something, and Erin’s hands pause. Her smile flickers—just for a second. Then, slowly, she glances toward the ice. Toward me. The expression on her face is unreadable.

But her eyes, her fucking eyes.

They burn.

Something deep and unspoken passes between us. My jaw locks. I don’t want to know what Ris just said. I don’t want to hear another word.

I don’t?—

The whistle blows for the second intermission, and I’m up like a shot, stalking toward the tunnel with single-minded determination.

Finn claps a hand on my shoulder, far too amused. “Quite the scouting report your kid’s giving up there.”

I grip his jersey. “Not. A. Word.”

“Who’s saying anything?” He grins, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “I’m just thinking, your daughter might have a future in PR. Maybe she should intern with Jessica.”

“Fuck off, asshole,” I grunt, hearing his laughter behind me.

I keep moving, desperate to shake off the way my body buzzes with her presence. The way the heat of her stare lingers on my skin.

But then—one last glance.

Just one.

And I see her, leaning down, carefully tucking Ris’s jersey tag in, smoothing the fabric. Watching them together, seeing how seamlessly Erin fits into our lives, makes me want things.

Dangerous things.

Beautiful things.

---