Page 93 of The Pucking Arrangement

Erin meets my eyes over Ris’s head, and fuck, there’s still heat there. Still want. But something else too. Something soft and questioning.

“I should probably stick to protein,” she says, but her resolve wavers when Ris’s face falls. “Maybe just a bite of yours?”

She moves closer, the scent of my soap clinging to her skin.

It wrecks me.

Hits me with the force of a freight train, leaving me reeling and breathless. The visceral need to keep her here, to make her see that she belongs with us, that this could be her home.

But I can’t be selfish. Not when she has the whole world waiting for her.

“Coffee?” I manage, already reaching for a mug.

“Please.” She accepts it gratefully, her fingers brushing mine—warm, familiar, perfect.

This. This is what I want.

Her. Here. In my kitchen. Stealing bites of Ris’s pancakes. Wearing my clothes. Filling the house with her scent, her laughter, her warmth. Making this place feel like a home again.

But love isn’t about what I want.

It’s about what’s best for Ris. And for her.

Even if it breaks me.

Chapter18

Reality Bites

Erin

The house hums with that rare, golden kind of Saturday afternoon quiet. Ris is passed out on the couch, her tiny body curled around a stuffed bear, completely wiped from a morning spent watching her papa coach future hockey stars. Her skating bag is a casualty of exhaustion, abandoned by the door next to Dmitri’s gear from his recovery skate.

I sink deeper into the armchair, laptop balanced on my knees, breathing in the stillness. Upstairs, Dmitri is behind a closed door, taking his sacred pre-game nap—even on off days, the man is nothing if not disciplined.

And I should be doing the same. Resting. Or, I don’t know, practicing, like a responsible musician. But even the thought of picking up my cello seems tiresome and utterly pointless right now. My mind would wander back to him—the way his gaze burned into me from that stage, the way he possessedme last night. The way I crave him claiming me all over again.

Yeah.Notpracticing seems like the right call.

My phone buzzes in my lap.

The email from Tanglewood lands in my inbox with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

My stomach drops as I stare at the subject line: “Regarding Your Summer Festival Application.”

God, I’ve been checking my email every five minutes for weeks, and now that it’s finally here, my finger hovers over the screen like it’s booby trapped. This is what I’ve wanted since graduation loomed on the horizon—my shot at being taken seriously, at having “prestigious” attached to my name in music circles.

“Just open the damn thing,” I mutter, tapping before I can chicken out.

The first line is all I need: “We regret to inform you...”

Crap.

I drop my phone like it’s suddenly scalding. The rejection sits there, mocking me, while I wait for devastation to hit.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, this weird sense of...relief?

---