Page 5 of The Pucking Arrangement

And then, worst of all—the hip stretches. One skate hooked over the other knee, sinking into a deep squat, shifting his weight like he has all the time in the world. My fingers tightened around my drink as I watched, helpless against the heat pooling between my thighs.

Like he’s preparing for battle.

Like he’s completely unaware—orveryaware—of the absolute destruction he’s leaving in his wake.

Oh, for the love of all things holy.

By the time I snapped out of the TikTok vertigo, my to-do list was untouched, my latest video still unedited, and the only thing I’d accomplished was gaining an unhealthy amount of knowledge about Dmitri Sokolov’s stretching routine.

And now, I have to watch him do it all again.

Live.

Without drooling.

“Look who finally escaped the practice rooms!” Sophie waves me over, grinning. “Ready to rejoin the land of the living?”

“Please,” I groan, dropping into the seat beside her. “You’re the one about to start med school. I’m just trading one kind of performance anxiety for another.”

“At least you’ll get paid for yours,” Jenna quips, sipping her drink. “Unlike the next six years of our lives.”

“I need to survive my final recital first.” I scrub a hand down my face. “Shostakovich is trying to kill me. The cadenza alone feels like a three-minute stress test designed by Satan himself. If my left pinkie doesn’t give out, my brain might.”

Sophie winces. “That bad?”

“Imagine sprinting uphill while solving a calculus problem. On one foot. In front of an audience.”

“Yikes.”

“Exactly. And on top of that, I need new content ideas. My channel could use a boost—something fresh.”

“Shostakovichandsocial media pressure?” Sophie shakes her head. “You’ve had a packed day.”

“Oh, and did I mention I need a new cello? Athirty-thousand-dollarone?”

“Jesus, woman, you have problems,” Sophie teases. “I’m sure Liam would be happy to help. Have you talked to him?”

“No way, Soph. He offers at least once a week, but it’s still a hard no. I need to figure this one out on my own.”

“What if you let him buy it, then you pay him back?” But I still shake my head. Liam tried that one too. And it’s definitely an option, but not one I’m willing to take yet.

“Why Shostakovich?” Jenna intercepts, intrigued. “It sounds like pure torture.”

“Because his musicmatters,” I exclaim, exasperated at their lack of appreciation. “It’s one of the most raw, devastating pieces ever written.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s rage, suffering, defiance,humor—all wrapped into one,” I explain, my hands already gesturing. “You don’t justplayit. Youfeelit. It hits you in the bones.” I flop back in my seat with a sigh. “But one wrong move, and I’m completely screwed.”

Jessica, ever the strategist, leans in. “Have you thought about what’s next? The Philharmonic could probably use social media consultants.”

I shake my head before she even finishes. “No.” I want toperform,not sit in an office editing highlight reels of other people performing. I didn’t pick Shostakovich by accident. It’s demanding. Relentless. A piece that forces you toproveyourself. He didn’t just write music. Hefoughtwith it.

And that’s exactly what I intend to do.

“Let her breathe,” Jenna cuts in, half listening while scrolling on her phone, sneaking glances at the ice.

Sophie smirks. “Says the girl who swore sports were a waste of perfectly good leg muscles. What’s with the sudden interest in hockey?”

---