Page 91 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

I love this country, but I’ve become the poster child for breaking its actually pretty reasonable laws.

The newspapers think that Coach forced his son to marry me, which is the most ridiculous part of this whole speculation.

I can’t wait for the day to be over so I can take Oskar back into my arms and pretend that we’ll get to do this all the time. I find him in the stands, next to Luke’s boyfriend Sebastian. He nods to me, and my heart swells.

One person is in my corner.

One person believes I can do this.

I don’t know how long I’ll get to play on NHL ice, but I vow not to waste a second of it.

“Okay?” Luke asks beside me.

“Amazing.” I square my shoulders and inhale the cold arena air.

Finally, it’s time.

I chase after the puck, whacking it away from the Los Angeles player, then sending it toward Luke.

Los Angeles players taunt me, and I swing around.

“Be cool,” Luke murmurs. “You want to make headlines for attacking someone?”

My muscles coil tight. Luke glides away, all grace and control. He’s kind and large, like the bears in silly children’s cartoons. Probably the kind of bear that inspired Oskar to keep one as a stuffed animal on his bed.

No one’s first word about me would be kind. I want to skate to the other side, to show Los Angeles exactly what I think about them.

A crash echoes across the ice. Axel has leveled a Los Angeles player. Whistles screech and he skates to the penalty box, head high.

I grip my stick tighter, trying to focus on the game and not the whispers from the crowd. Every time I touch the puck, the murmurs swell. The Los Angeles players smirk when they check me into the boards, like they know I’m about to disappear.

Noah skates past. “Keep your head in it.”

Easy for him to say. His marriage to Finn wasn’t splashed across every sports blog with words like “fraud” and “investigation.”

I chase after a loose puck, but my timing’s off. A Los Angeles forward steals it and races toward our goal. Coach’s shouts echo across the ice.

“Defense! Get back!”

My skates carve into the ice as I pivot. Everything in me wants to slam into the forward, show him what a “fraud” can do. But Luke’s warning rings in my ears.

The guy scores. The light flashes. Los Angeles players cluster together, celebrating.

Coach’s face darkens on the bench. I brace for him to pull me, but he just shakes his head.

That’s worse.

During the next shift, I play it safer. No dramatic checks, no fancy moves. Just doing my job while thousands watch and judge.

Between periods, I find Oskar in the stands again. He’s leaning forward, hands clasped like he’s praying. My chest tightens. He shouldn’t have to worry about me on top of everything else.

The second period starts. I focus on the sound of my skates cutting ice, the familiar weight of my stick. I’ve earned my place here. Whether they believe in my marriage or not, no one can take away what I’ve accomplished on this ice.

A Los Angeles player sneers as he skates past. “Going back to Russia soon, Volkov?”

My grip tightens on my stick. One good swing and I could—

No. That’s exactly what they want. They probably were prepped to annoy me. God, no wonder Axel hates Los Angeles. I thought it was just his strange obsession with that player, but obviously they’re all terrible. The one thing I know about the US is that the East Coast is definitely the best coast.