Page 98 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Fuck off,” Finn growls, slumping lower in his seat. “Did you hear she’s dating some blue blood asshole now? Brooks Brothers suit, summer house in the Hamptons, probably named Chase or Brad or some shit. The kind of guy Novak would approve of.”

“Speaking of stalking.” I smirk.

“Shut up.” He throws a pretzel at my head. “At least I’m not the one whose nanny is going viral with Classical Music’s Most Eligible Bachelor.”

I seriously consider checking him into the emergency exit.

“Easy there, tiger,” Nate drawls from three rows up where he’s got the flight attendant hanging on his every word. “Your murder face is showing again.”

“It’s just Sokolov,” Adam chimes in, smirking. “Something about Russians and how they treat their women. The rest of us have evolved past the caveman stage.”

The whole team dissolves into snickers. Even Finn, the traitor, joins in.

I mutter a curse in Russian, but my eyes are already back on my phone, thumb hovering over another notification.

I get it. I do. Because every time I see another video of Luka’s hands on Erin, something primal in me wants to book the next flight home and mark my territory. These playoff beards aren’t the only thing making us channel a cavemen.

“Real mature.” But my jaw clenches as another notification pops up. Luka commenting on Erin’s latest post:Perfect session today,draga. Can’t wait for tomorrow’s filming.

Tomorrow. When I’ll be in fucking Florida.

A shadow crosses my screen. Liam.

Finn catches on fast, already unbuckling. “Take my seat, Captain.” He heads toward the back before I can object, probably to where Nate’s holding court.

Liam drops into the seat beside me, all casual posture, but his eyes are sharp and hunting.

“So,” he starts, stretching out like he’s got all the time in the world. “You and Erin.”

I don’t look up. Just keep scrolling. Past Luka’s latest “behind-the-scenes” post—which is just him standing too close to my girl. Again. That man is a goddamn player if there ever was one.

“Nothing to talk about,” I mutter.

Liam snorts. “Right. Because the way you were looking at her during that concert? You were this close to jumping the balcony and dragging her off the stage.”

I clench my jaw and lock my phone. Heat creeps up my neck. “Liam?—”

“And then,” he continues, voice low but edged, “you both disappeared real quick after. Sophie said Erin didn’t answer her phone until noon the next day.”

“I don’t think you want the play-by-play, big brother.”

“God, no.” He actually shudders. “Definitely not.” Then he exhales, sharp and measured. Captain mode activated.

“Look,” he says, tone shifting, “I get it. Trust me. I didn’t give a single fuck about anything until I got Sophie?—”

“Oh, I remember it all too well,” I snark.

“My point,” he barrels on, ignoring me, “is that I know what it’s like.”

I drag a hand through my beard, exhaling roughly. “Then you know I can’t help this.” My voice drops, rawer than I mean it to be. “I tried, Liam. I really fucking tried. But she’s…” I shake my head. “She’s like gravity. Everything pulls me toward her.”

A long pause. I keep my eyes on the seat in front of me, like if I ignore him hard enough, this conversation will disappear.

“And you,” he adds, “are playing like absolute shit.”

That yanks my head up. “We lost by one goal?—”

“Because you’re not on your best game.” He levels me with a stare. “The whole team sees it. Coach is coming for your ass. Fair warning.”

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