Page 106 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

Someone clears his throat. “Are you sure you want to do that where the press might see you?”

Shit.

My parents are here.

I turn toward Pappa’s voice, and heat inundates my cheeks.

I’m trying to be a good husband to Dmitri for the immigration office, and I almost wound up having a photo of me shoving Dmitri all over social media.

I turn to Dmitri. “I’m sorry. I-I forgot. Not that I should do that anyway...”

His eyes dance. “You’re very cute.”

My skin prickles, the words ushering through me, filling my blood, filling my soul.

He shrugs. “I am... I think you say, ‘built like tank’. Nothing hurts me.” His gaze slides to Pappa. “Even locker room attacks.”

Pappa’s cheeks pinken. “I’m very sorry, Dmitri. It’s clear that I misinterpreted the situation.”

“Is okay,” Dmitri says broadly. “Thank you for being here. Is unexpected and nice.”

“Lots of people pass immigration interviews,” Ingrid says.

“Exactly.” Dmitri smiles at her. “Good energy. Is appreciated.”

We walk into the lobby, following the signs. My heart sputters and quakes but I paste a smile on my face, as if that will be sufficient armor against the US immigration system. I definitely could use some chain mail and a shield now. I don’t want to attack them...I just want to be protected.

Dmitri’s stance is confident, his shoulders wide, his breath even. But then, Dmitri skates into an arena filled with people watching him and judging him on a grueling basis. If most people make a mistake at work, no one notices. If he makes a mistake at work, a clip will be created of the event, so that even those who didn’t bother to watch the game can watch it over and over and over again. If he looks scared and intimidated, the players on the opposing team might notice, and they wouldn’t be sending him comforting smiles and “you’ve got this” messages his way.

Vince greets us in this lobby holding a briefcase. I try not to think about the immigration paperwork inside.

“Some of your teammates wrote letters in support of your relationship,” Vince says.

“They did?” Dmitri’s eyes shine.

“Yes.”

“That’s very nice of them.”

“We did too,” Pappa says.

“They all included photos of you together. Some of the photos go back three years.”

Dmitri’s eyes soften. “I was always drawn to you. I wish I’d known—” He stops, then smiles. “Thank you, Vince. I know I gave you a lot of extra work to do.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Vince says. “Genuinely. I hope you get to stay.”

I notice that Daniela and Tanaka aren’t there. Of course, they wouldn’t be there, but there are many more people who want to see this meeting implode.

Dmitri squeezes my hand, as if he can read every thought in my mind. And perhaps he can.

“We got you in before the first meetings start,” Vince says. “Emergency hearing. Now, the thing with lawyers is to say as little as possible. Just the facts. We have pictures. We have letters. We have your declarations of love. No huge stories.”

“I’m not a big talker,” I promise him. “English is my second language too.”

“I was aware of that,” Vince says. His gaze slides to Oskar. “And I know you’re not a big talker either. See you’ll be fine.”

His expression twists briefly, something some people would call a micro expression, but which I’m going to say was simply something I imagined, a shadow as we pass on the corridor. Maybe one bulb is less bright than the others. That’s all. No big deal.