Page 57 of The Pucking Arrangement

Ris flinches at the sudden noise, pressing instinctively into my side. I settle a hand on her shoulder, grounding her, my own muscles tightening in preparation for…whatever the hell we just walked into.

Footsteps thunder toward us.

A teenage boy skids into view, still gripping an Xbox controller like he forgot he was holding it. His jaw drops.

“You’re—you’re Dmitri Sokolov!”

“Da.” I squeeze Ris’s shoulder, steadying her. “We are here for the cello.”

The father startles, as if remembering this is supposed to be a business transaction. “Right! Of course!” He turns toward the hallway. “Emma, sweetheart, bring out your old cello!”

A girl appears, maybe thirteen or fourteen, all chestnut curls and casual weekend wear—graphic tee, worn jeans. She cradles the cello like an afterthought, but when her gaze lands on me, her grip tightens.

“Dad, is that really?—”

“The Defenders’ star defenseman? Yes!” He’s practically vibrating. “Jack, go get your stick!”

“Papa,” Ris stage-whispers, tugging at my sleeve with an exasperated expression. “You’re being famous again.”

Beside me, Erin snorts, barely covering it with a cough. When I glance her way, her eyes dance with amusement.

Jack returns at a dead sprint, hockey stick clutched like a holy relic. “Would you… I mean, if it’s not too much trouble…”

“It’s no trouble.” I take the marker he thrusts at me, signing with the ease of muscle memory while Ris circles the cello, whispering to herself.

I glance at Erin. “Will this work for her?”

She grins. “Oh yeah. This will be perfect. Excited for your first lesson, sweet girl?” she teases, then adds, “After lunch.”

I ignore the warmth curling low in my gut and turn to the father. “How much?”

“Two thousand,” he says, patting the cello’s polished wood. “Originally paid thirty-five, but Emma’s outgrown it. We got her a new one a few weeks ago.”

“Deal.” I’m already pulling out my phone. “Venmo okay?”

The man lights up like I just handed him season tickets. “Of course! Let me just—” He fumbles for his phone, stalling for an extra moment. I recognize that look.

And sure enough?—

“Would you mind—?” He gestures toward Jack, already holding up his phone. “Just one picture?”

I stifle a sigh, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. This comes with the territory.

“Sure.” I crouch slightly so Jack doesn’t have to strain to fit in the frame, resting one hand on his shoulder. The kid beams like it’s Christmas morning as the shutter clicks.

Ris, still hovering over the cello, presses her fingertips just above the strings, reverent. “Papa…it’s so pretty.”

I send the payment through. Both our phones buzz in confirmation.

“Done.”

Emma’s father beams. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

I nod, then glance down at my daughter practically vibrating with excitement.

“You can try it as soon as we get home,” I tell her, then add, “But first, food.”

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