Page 84 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

Oskar sacrificed everything for me. His career. His dating life. His reputation.

My legs quiver, and my heart is unsure whether to speed up or slow. There’s no right answer, because nothing will change this situation.

Everyone knows the marriage is for pretend. Will I ever be able to enter the US again, even as a tourist, after this? Will I ever get a tourist visa if the government thinks I tried to do immigration fraud?

The worst part? They’re right.

God. I’ve never been smart. Never been intelligent.

How did I think I could outsmart the United States government? The most powerful, most amazing country in the world?

Axel normally tells jokes or complains about his childhood rival who plays for Los Angeles. He’s not supposed to look at me, eyes round with concern. Neither is Troy.

They’re standing too close to me, and I hate it.

Because if their eyes are round with worry, if I’ve managed to concern professional athletes who are never concerned with anything, who push their bodies to the limit everyday, then this is seriously bad.

“Is fine,” I say, but their eyes are still rounded.

Some of them nod. They’re lying for me.

“Is fine because we are real couple,” I say.

“It’s one newspaper article,” Finn says.

“Well...” Axel starts to speak, then evidently thinks better of it.

I furrow my brow. “What?”

“I doubt it will be just one newspaper article by the end of the day. I, um, was already contacted for a comment.”

“What!” Troy grabs his phone, then reads a message, evidently from a reporter. “Oh.”

Finn and Noah check their phones too. I don’t believe their innocent, no big deal expressions for one moment.

“I told them that Dmitri and Oskar are very devoted and always together,” Axel says. “Wasn’t a lie!”

“Thank you,” I say.

I mean it, but I hate that I’m getting the most important people in my life to lie for me.

“I am devoted to Oskar,” I say. “In fact...”

I rake my hand through my hair. I hate that my hand is fluttering, like some Victorian woman who inhaled too many smelling salts. How can I hit the puck into the net if my hand isn’t even steady? And if my heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest?

“I need to go,” I say.

Then I brush between Noah and Finn and head for Oskar’s office.

He must hate me. What if this doesn’t work? What if he’s angry? What if everything amazing from last night and this morning means nothing now? What if all he feels is regret?

My teammates are saying something to me, but I don’t care.

I need to get ready to go on the ice. I need to be focused on our game tonight.

But the only person who matters is in a small office in this arena, and I stride toward him. My feet feel weighted as I trudge through the corridor. Finally, I stumble through his door.

“Dmitri?” Oskar jumps up, worry filling those blue eyes.