Page 34 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

I know all about his not-so awesome family back in Russia, though he only has a few not-so awesome cousins alive now, and I know about his not-so awesome school experience.

Dmitri shares things with me.

My heart quakes. My breath sputters.

A ring interrupts my thoughts.

Daniela answers. “Hello, you’ve reached the Blizzards.” Her chirpy voice fades.

Could this be about Vegas? No. Surely not.

Her gaze slides toward me, phone still pressed to her ear. “That can’t be right. There must be some mistake.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dmitri

Vince didn’t sound happy on the phone. He was supposed to sound happy. I fixed the problem.

Instead, his voice climbed higher with each “What!” until he sounded like he might rupture something.

I mean, I’m married to Oskar. He became a US citizen after his family moved here from Sweden. I’ll get my green card. Simple logic, really.

But now Vince wants me at the arena, and my chest feels like I’ve been doing weighted pull-ups.

Something is wrong.

The team doesn’t realize, thankfully. They continue to chatter, and I continue to pretend to follow their conversation.

Maybe it’s just extra paperwork. Administrative details.

It’s fine.

I was efficient. I took care of the visa. I’m married to Oskar.

God. Oskar actually married me.

And even though the morning is turning to be less splendid than I thought it would be, I’m still happy. Because I’m not alone in this world. Not really. Maybe my mother and grandparents are gone, and maybe I never met my dad and I’m not sure if he ever met me, but I have my teammates.

My loud, oblivious teammates who push me to achieve things with my body that I didn’t think was possible and who push me to be better on the ice.

Maybe firing rubber discs into nets for money is an odd way to make a living, but I excel at it. Before the immigration issue, Coach was talking about putting me on the first line when Evan and Vinnie retire. If our team wasn’t so wonderful, I’d be there already.

Footsteps thunder down the hallway.

That’s not necessarily foreboding.

This is a place filled with two-hundred pound plus athletes. Footsteps have a habit of thundering when men of a certain sturdiness march through the hallways.

“Where is he?”

Shit.

That is definitely coach’s voice. But maybe he’s excited. Maybe he wants to give Evan another award for being the perfect captain. Evan collects those like I collect penalty minutes.

And Coach might be speaking loudly, but that’s sort of his thing.

I switch to heavier dumbbells. If I’m getting distracted by hallway noises, I’m not pushing hard enough.