Page 57 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

I pace the hallway outside the locker room. Finally, Dmitri arrives. His eyes flare when he sees me.

We should have prepared more for the interview last night. I scan Daniela’s list of questions again, anxiety bubbling in my body.

He’s freshly showered, and beads of water still shimmer on his face. His hair is damp, and he wears the team sweatpants and sweatshirt.

He takes my hand, and I try not to quiver at the touch of his bare skin against mine.

“The press are here.”

“Good. Let’s get this over with.”

Even though there aren’t any journalists in the hallway, Dmitri doesn’t let go of my hand. I guess a journalist could emerge at any moment, and he’s just being smart.

There’s no other reason why we should be holding hands.

We enter the room.

“The happy couple,” Daniela exclaims when we enter. Her smile is brittle, but she types on her tablet valiantly.

I recognize Jeremy Jones and Rex Manley—two journalists I wish were far, far away.

Maybe I’m being unfair.

They’re probably great people.

But they have the ability to destroy my husband’s life, and even if, strictly speaking, he doesn’t intend to spend the rest of his life with me, I can’t bear the thought of anything bad happening to him.

“Congratulations on your wedding.” Rex’s eyes dance as if he finds the situation amusing.

Something constricts in my throat, but then Dmitri’s hand covers mine, warm and wonderful.

“Thank you,” Dmitri says, his deep voice grounding me.

“I can’t believe there are so many gay couples on the Boston Blizzards,” Rex says. “It’s pretty unbelievable.”

“Well, I’m not a player of course.”

Jeremy and Rex’s eyes round.

“I mean, obviously,” I say. My cheeks heat.

Pappa was one of the best hockey players in Sweden, but I’m shorter than him. I don’t look anything like a hockey player.

“Unlike Finn and Noah,” I say hastily. “Or Evan and Vinnie. I, um, work on the management side.”

“That is convenient,” Rex says, and even Jeremy is nodding along with him now, his eyes narrow and assessing.

Shit.

Jeremy is supposed to be the easy interviewer. He comes from an LGBTQ magazine.

“You’ve been having visa issues,” Rex says. “And now they’re solved.”

Dmitri tenses.

The door swings open and a slender woman with Texas hair and Italian heels sweeps into the room. She wears a badge, and my heart sinks.

“Sorry I’m late,” the woman squeals. “This arena is massive.”