Page 35 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

Maybe the only problem is that my hearing got a workout in Vegas. Maybe Vegas heightened my hearing with all those slot machines and pulsing music designed to keep gamblers throwing away money. No drunken whoops or giggling guests or business deals sealed with bourbon here. Seeing how a person acts when drunk and exposed to vices is a technique that businesspeople have followed for thousands of years.

I learned about that watching a documentary with Oskar about ancient Persians. He loves that historical stuff.

So yeah, the shouting is nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

The door crashes open.

The weight room goes silent. Everyone stares at me.

“What did you do?” Noah whispers.

“Nothing,” I lie.

Coach storms in, and I hope that he went to Florida overnight or something and laid out in the sun for hours with no sunscreen, but even I know that that is probably not what happened.

He’s angry.

Angrier than I’ve ever seen him.

Angrier than when that news article came out about how I was in a barroom brawl, and before I had a chance to explain that it was totally the other person’s fault.

He’s furious, and something in my chest tightens. I want him to like me. He’s my father-in-law now. The father of the most important person in my life.

Get up, Volkov!” he roars.

Gasps sound from around the locker room, and I shoot an irritate glance at my teammates, because really, it’s not that strange.

Is it?

Coach’s fist moves upward, and I could duck, but I’ll let him have this win.

“Hi, Daddy,” I say.

His pale blue eyes darken to steel.

Then his fist moves in the air. It’s closer, closer, closer—

Pain explodes across my jaw. The floor rushes up to meet me.

I knew Coach was going to punch me, but he definitely didn’t withhold anything. Pain screeches through my body, and my jaw screams with confusion. Normally, it’s not confronted with anything more painful than an occasional snag with my razor, and the last time that happened was when I was in junior high.

I rub my face. “That hurt!

“It’s supposed to.” Coach advances, and my teammates surge forward.

“Um...” Noah’s voice quavers.

Coach usually breaks up fights, not starts them.

“Maybe you can talk about it?” Finn suggests.

“He deserved it,” Coach growls, glaring down at me.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding—” Troy starts, but I shake my head.

“It wasn’t,” I say, because I won’t pretend this is something it’s not. “Oskar and I got married in Vegas yesterday.”