Page 50 of The Pucking Arrangement

Things I have no business wanting.

This is temporary. That’s what I keep telling myself.She’s temporary.

She’s here for Ris. Not for me. Not for this unbearable, slow-burn ache that refuses to die no matter how hard I try to bury it.

I rip my gaze away and shove the feeling down. As deep as it will go.

“Earth to Sokolov!” Coach’s voice snaps me back. “Game’s not over yet!”

Da.The game isn’t over.

And neither is this fight.

Because I will fight it.

I have to.

No matter how much I want to lose.

Chapter11

The Physics of Falling

Erin

Morning sunlight filters through my bedroom window, streaking gold across the sheets like a cruel joke, mocking my sleepless night. My body aches in that restless, unsatisfied way that comes from tossing and turning for hours, burning up the bed while my mind loops the same maddening question on repeat.

Why the fuck is he holding back?

He wants me. I know he wants me. It’s in the way his eyes darken when I step too close. The way his hands flex like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me. The way his accent roughens when he’s tired, curling around my name like a secret.

And yet—nothing.

No stolen kisses in the hallway. No hands slipping over my waist when Ris isn’t looking. No anything.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to let it go. But all I can see is the way he looked at me last night. The way his gaze found mine every. Single. Time. His body hammering into opponents with brutal, beautiful precision, my pulse spiking like I felt the impact. The quiet, devastating softness in his face when he looked up at the box, when he saw Ris in his jersey, when she beamed at him.

God, that smile.

I groan and shove my pillow over my face. This is insane.I shouldn’t be lying here, burning up over a man who refuses to make a move.

Maybe he’s just not interested.

Except, he is.

Iseeit.Feelit.

So why the hell is he resisting?

Does he have a girlfriend? Some secret, stunning woman tucked away, so discreetly hidden that even the tabloids—who track every move he makes on the ice—haven’t caught a whiff of her? He’s so damn private, a fortress of control, and in the days I’ve lived in his house, I haven’t found a single sign of another woman. Not a spare toothbrush. Not an abandoned hair tie. Nothing.

So what is it?

He’s clearly not gay with the way he reacts to me. And the way he looked at me in the gym? No straight man watches a woman stretch like that and walks away without doing something about it.

My head drops back against the mattress, frustration curling hot and tight in my gut.This is ridiculous.I should be thinking about my upcoming performance at Red Velvet. About my YouTube channel. About booking more summer gigs.

Instead, I’m lying here like a desperate idiot, wondering what the hell it’s going to take to make Dmitri Sokolov break.

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