Page 6 of The Pucking Arrangement

Jenna’s cheeks turn pink. “I’m expanding my horizons.”

“Right,” Jessica says dryly. “Nothing to do with?—”

“So!” I cut in, yanking out my camera like it’s a life raft. “Anyone want to help me brainstorm? I’m thinking something about rhythm in sports, or maybe mathematical patterns in gameplay.”

“Nerd,” Sophie teases, nudging me. “But the best kind. The kind who’s about to graduate with a performance degree, so you’ve earned it.”

The lights dim, and the arena hums with anticipation. I lift my camera, sweeping the lens across the ice.

Liam, orchestrating the play like a battlefield general. Adam, carving the ice, every turn a blade slicing through marble. Finn, a predator on the wing, all speed and chaos, striking before defenders even know he’s there. Nate, a fortress in front of the net, unmoving, impenetrable.

They move like something otherworldly—too fast, too powerful, built for destruction yet breathtaking in their control. An army of titans on blades, and I don’t know where to look first.

But then, I pause.

On Dmitri.

For research purposes, obviously. Nothing more. And definitely not because watching him command the ice like he owns it has my thighs pressing together.

The camera stays trained on him, but I’m not even looking at the viewfinder anymore. I’m watching the real thing.

The raw, effortless strength in every stride. The way his legs coil and release, pure precision and power. The way he pivots, cutting sharp through the ice, sending up a spray of snow like it personally offended him.

The way his bodymoves.

I swallow hard.

He’s devastating. A symphony of muscle and control. Chiseled from marble but built to destroy.

Terrifying in the best fucking way.

“You’re drooling,” Sophie whispers, elbowing me.

“Am not,” I hiss, even as Idefinitelyzoom in on Number 55. “I’m documenting gameplay patterns for my video.”

“Uh-huh.” Jessica leans over, deadpan. “And thesepatternsjust so happen to focus on…Sokolov?”

“The same man who’s been sneaking glances up here between plays?” Jenna adds sweetly.

Wait,what?

My pulse stumbles. My eyes dart to the ice, searching—and oh, bad idea.

Because the second I meet his gaze, it’s like a live wire snaps between us. A full-body hit, sudden and all consuming, leaving me breathless and burning.

“I saw that,” Sophie sing-songs.

“Saw what? Nothing happened. I’m filming.For work.”

“Right,” Jessica drawls. “Because your channeldefinitelyneeds thirty different angles of Dmitri Sokolov’s hockey pants.”

“They’re...flattering,” I mumble, refusing to look away from my camera screen.

And then it happens.

Dmitri intercepts a pass at the blue line, his stick slicing through the air. One shift of his weight, and he’sgone—legs coiling, body surging forward as he dekes past a Kings defenseman so cleanly the poor guy nearly trips over his own skates.

The crowd erupts,a deafening pulse of energy that seems to move with him, twenty thousand voices rising as he carves through open ice like a panther hunting his kill.

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