Page 2 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

I throw him my most dazzling smile and wink. “Hi, Daddy.”

Gasps sound from the locker room. Eyes bulge. Pads drop.

Coach’s fist comes out, and I topple down when it collides with my jaw.

I could take him.

But I’ll give him this win.

After all, I did just marry his only son.

CHAPTER TWO

Three days earlier

Oskar

Daniela pokes her head through the door of our office, her long hair swinging. “It’s time.”

I give a curt professional nod and hope that the tension shooting through my body isn’t obvious. A middle-aged man in a suit worthy of the high price the team is paying him stands behind her.

“There’s nothing to be done?” I ask Vince.

“Nothing.” He shoots an apologetic smile, and I’m probably supposed to say something like ‘I understand.’ I stay silent.

The team paid his firm astronomical sums to find a solution. He was supposed to fix this.

“You tried,” Pappa tells him. “We appreciate all your help.”

Vince and Pappa talk about the team’s upcoming games in Canada. Pappa is the Head Blizzards Coach.

I’m silent. This sucks so hard.

Dmitri is going to hate this.

I press my lips together and march to the conference room. I smooth my hair, even though it doesn’t matter.

Dmitri doesn’t care what I look like. There’s no Newbury Street hairdresser, no compilation of designer garments that could ever possibly make a difference.

Dmitri is straight.

Most of the team has figured out my feelings for him by now. I see it in their pitying glances, the way their eyes go soft and sad when I look at him too long, like I’m some heartbreaking shelter commercial.

“He’s already here,” Daniela whispers, and my stomach drops. Dmitri is never early for anything.

But he’s been glum for weeks. He’s been withdrawn and quiet and all the things he never is.

I clutch the manila folder and all the awful things inside.

We march toward the conference room. Daniela’s heels click against the floor, and her hips wriggle, hot girl style, as her hair bounces. I try not to notice how she’s exactly Dmitri’s type: confident, beautiful, experienced.

I follow my father, Vince, and Daniela into the conference room. They take their seats on the expensive German chairs. Fresh carafes of cucumber-infused water have been set out, and clinks sound as ice cubes topple into glasses.

I sit down gently, my heart pounding, staring at the manila folder.

I don’t want to meet Dmitri’s eyes.

Because then he’ll know the answer. He’ll know there’s nothing the Boston Blizzards can do for his particular problem. And God, I don’t want him to know yet. I want him to still have hope.