Page 7 of The Pucking Arrangement

Fast. Fluid. Deadly.

His power is unreal.Every stride is an extension of menacing, raw violence—his skates digging in, cutting deep, spraying ice in his wake. His shoulders roll as he accelerates, muscles bunching beneath the weight of his gear.

The goalie braces. The defenders scramble. It doesn’t matter.

Dmitri flicks his wrist.

Boom.

The puckrocketsinto the net.

Madison Square Garden explodes.

Jenna screams,grabbing my arm hard enough to bruise. “Did you see that?! Highlight reel, hands down!”

I nod. Barely. Because I can’t speak. Because theRussian Destructionis skating past our box. His eyes glued on me.

And then?—

Oh,fuck.

He lifts his gloved hand to his ear.

Thecall megesture.

My stomach drops. My pulse spikes.

And then—worse.

He mimes playing a cello.

Right there, in front of God, my brother, and twenty thousand screaming fans.

My jaw hits the floor.

And then to top it off, he winks.

Actually. Fucking. Winks.

At me.

Idie.

Jessica blinks. “Since when does Sokolov celebrate goals?”

“He doesn’t,” Sophie breathes. “He usually just fist bumps and moves on.”

“Maybe he’s feeling musical tonight,” Jenna snickers.

I cannot breathe. My hands are shaking. My skin is burning. My panties are on fire.

“Dmitri Sokolov just dedicated a goal to you,” Sophie hums, sipping her drink like this is fine. Like my entire life hasn’t just been upended.

“He did not—it wasn’t—” I sputter, pulse rioting.

“Oh, totally,” Jenna deadpans. “He mimes playing a cello for all his goals. Super common occurrence around here.”

I whip around to glare at her.

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