Page 61 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

I smile back at him, but my heart feels heavy in my chest.

Oskar chatters about his parents and younger sisters as we drive toward Arlington. We leave Boston and its swarms of tourists and busy professionals. Immaculately groomed men and women walk fluffy dogs.

Finally, I pull in front of the large suburban house. It’s white with green shutters and looks like the houses in movies I used to watch when I was growing up in Russia. It’s the sort of house with nice families, next to other houses with nice families. It’s nothing like the concrete apartment where I was born, where I used to sleep in my mother’s room until I was ten and was sent to play hockey for the Russian state. We shared that apartment with my mother’s grandparents, a grumpy gray-haired couple who complained about my presence and my mother’s presence and my dad’s perpetual absence.

This is fine.

I’m meeting Oskar’s parents.

And technically, I’ve met them before.

But they know just how terrible I am. They’re not impressed with the marriage.

I tell myself I don’t care if they like me, because God, that’s not something I normally do care about. When I fight other players on the ice, I don’t care that they might not like me. In fact, the more the other team doesn’t like me, the better, I’ve always said.

But this is different. I don’t want Oskar to experience any blowback. I don’t want his relationship with his happy, super adorable family to change because of me.

I don’t want him to look back on his life in a few decades and say that when he met me, things changed. No way.

I take Oskar’s hand and walk up the winding stone path with him, then ring the doorbell, clutching the expensive wine like a shield.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Oskar

The door swings open, and Dmitri squeezes my hand before releasing it. My sister opens the door, pink-and-red braces flashing.

“Dmitri Volkov!” she squeals. “I’m your sister!”

Shit.

“Hi Linnea,” I say.

In the next moment, Linnea flings herself into Dmitri’s startled arms with the enthusiasm and confidence of a pairs figure skater. He shoves the wine into my hand.

“Hi,” Dmitri says, patting her head awkwardly.

I hear footsteps, then Olivia lurches into my arms.

I grin. I’m not sure how used to children Dmitri is. He doesn’t have any siblings and when we do charity events, he normally signs up for the events with veterans or animals.

“That’s enough, Linnea,” I say.

I turn to my youngest sister. “Hi Olivia. How was school?”

“Why didn’t you invite us to your wedding?” Olivia whines.

“We, um, didn’t invite anyone to our wedding,” I say, exchanging a quick glance with Dmitri.

Olivia assesses Dmitri. “Are you shy?”

Dmitri swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing desperately. “Maybe a bit shy.”

I grin.

Dmitri definitely is not shy at work. He’s one of the most talkative players on the team.

But right now he looks like he’d rather face an angry opposing team than my teenage sisters.