Rule #3: Never Fake Marry the Coach’s Son (Hockey Rules #3)

CHAPTER TWO

T hree days earlier

Oskar

Daniela pokes her head through the door of our office, her long hair swinging. “It’s time.”

I give a curt professional nod and hope that the tension shooting through my body isn’t obvious. A middle-aged man in a suit worthy of the high price the team is paying him stands behind her.

“There’s nothing to be done?” I ask Vince.

“Nothing.” He shoots an apologetic smile, and I’m probably supposed to say something like ‘I understand.’ I stay silent.

The team paid his firm astronomical sums to find a solution. He was supposed to fix this.

“You tried,” Pappa tells him. “We appreciate all your help.”

Vince and Pappa talk about the team’s upcoming games in Canada. Pappa is the Head Blizzards Coach.

I’m silent. This sucks so hard.

Dmitri is going to hate this.

I press my lips together and march to the conference room. I smooth my hair, even though it doesn’t matter.

Dmitri doesn’t care what I look like. There’s no Newbury Street hairdresser, no compilation of designer garments that could ever possibly make a difference.

Dmitri is straight.

Most of the team has figured out my feelings for him by now. I see it in their pitying glances, the way their eyes go soft and sad when I look at him too long, like I’m some heartbreaking shelter commercial.

“He’s already here,” Daniela whispers, and my stomach drops. Dmitri is never early for anything.

But he’s been glum for weeks. He’s been withdrawn and quiet and all the things he never is.

I clutch the manila folder and all the awful things inside.

We march toward the conference room. Daniela’s heels click against the floor, and her hips wriggle, hot girl style, as her hair bounces. I try not to notice how she’s exactly Dmitri’s type: confident, beautiful, experienced.

I follow my father, Vince, and Daniela into the conference room. They take their seats on the expensive German chairs. Fresh carafes of cucumber-infused water have been set out, and clinks sound as ice cubes topple into glasses.

I sit down gently, my heart pounding, staring at the manila folder.

I don’t want to meet Dmitri’s eyes.

Because then he’ll know the answer. He’ll know there’s nothing the Boston Blizzards can do for his particular problem. And God, I don’t want him to know yet. I want him to still have hope.

“Well...?” Dmitri asks, his tenor, accented voice cutting through the room.

I flick my gaze toward him, and his gaze crumples.

“Oh,” he breathes.

I nod.

There’s nothing I can add.

Daniela’s eyes narrow, and it occurs to me that most conversations involve more than grunts and eye contact.

“Dmitri,” my father says, his voice calm and collected. “Unfortunately, the Blizzards are not able to secure a visa renewal for you.”

“We did all we could do,” Vince says. “We’re very sorry. We know this is terrible news for any international athlete.”

Dmitri presses his lips together.

“We are as upset about this as you,” Daniela assures him. “You have been an asset to the team.”

Dmitri’s fingers jolt, and he rearranges every one of his perfect facial features into a sneer. “If you were as upset as me, you would find solution.”

Daniela and Vince exchange a look that’s a mixture of befuddlement and irritation. Dmitri isn’t supposed to deign to protest.

“You were traveling out of status on multiple occasions,” Vince says. “The government frowns on that.”

“I traveled with team!”

“All the same, the government was supposed to be notified of any travel.”

Dmitri squirms. “My agent should have taken care of that.”

“We know,” I say. “It’s not your fault. He was a terrible agent.”

“He was on list of recommended agents!”

“Obviously, we will no longer recommend him,” Daniela says smoothly. “You can rest assured that future international athletes here will not be subjected to that experience.”

“No one could have anticipated the meth addiction and flight to Mexico with everyone’s money,” Pappa says.

“That’s not a common next business move for agents,” Daniela adds.

Dmitri’s sneer only strengthens. Because we’re not telling him there’s a solution. We’re not telling him there’s a way he can stay.

“It would have been easier to fight for you if you hadn’t already had a police record,” Vince reminds him.

Dmitri glares. “One bar fight. Mere scratches. No big deal.”

“A big deal to US immigration though,” Vince says.

“Someone wanted to say he hit Dmitri Volkov. Not my fault.”

“As you know, we travel to Canada often. We can’t have a player who can’t leave the country,” Pappa says. “This is the middle of the season. We need to find a replacement for you.”

Dmitri swallows hard. “I see. Do you have someone in mind...Am I still with the team?”

“We play Canada in ten days. We’ll need to secure a player before then. I expect we’ll announce your replacement in a few days. We’ve just learned the news ourselves. We really wanted you to stay.”

“We’ll miss you,” I manage, hating how my voice betrays me.

Dmitri nods, but the crease on his forehead doesn’t ease as much as I want it to. The silence that follows feels heavier than when the team left the playoffs last year.

Dmitri tosses his dark hair. The strands always get into his eyes. I spread my hands against the polished wooden table, lest I feel compelled to do something crazy, like smooth it away from his face.

“When do I have to go?” Dmitri’s voice is small.

I hate it.

I hate all of this.

Daniela smiles, happy that there’s a question she knows the answer to.

I want to say something that will make it better.

I want to tell him that my heart is breaking, that I do care. That I’m not just uttering platitudes.

But the statement is impossible.

It involves revealing all the things that I’ve locked away. All the things that make Dmitri’s teammates look at me with sympathy, their eyes round, whispering to each other in my presence, when they see me look at Dmitri for too long.

I focus on the manila folder instead. I memorize the color and the way the edges feel against my fingers.

But all I can think about is Dmitri.

It’s so unfair. So outrageously terrible.

Dmitri came to this country to play hockey and he’s done a remarkable job. The Blizzards are one of the top teams in the country. We might win the Stanley Cup.

He’s not here to get money from the government. He has a job. A great one. A job that needs him.

Maybe he’s on the second line, but that’s because the first line is incredible and was formed years ago.

God, all Dmitri did was focus on the game. That’s what he’s supposed to do.

Dmitri inhales. “There’s nothing that can be done?”

“Not with an employment visa, unfortunately. You need to return back to Russia. You can continue the immigration process in your own country.”

“This isn’t the end, Dmitri,” Pappa assures him. “You’re a great player.”

“I can’t return to Russia. Is out of question.”

Vince’s smile is more professional than sympathetic. “I don’t suppose you have a secret girlfriend you’re about to propose to?”

Dmitri blinks. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“US immigration doesn’t want their citizens’ spouses to be sent away.”

“Oh.”

“But since you’re single, that’s irrelevant.” Vince shrugs.

“I see.” Dmitri rises. Six feet four inches of Russian muscle saunter away, and the door clicks shut.

“Well, I should get back to my office,” Vince says. “I’ll send the invoice.”

“Let us know if you think of anything else,” I say.

“He broke too many rules. I’m good, but I’m not magical.”

“I need to call Tanako,” Pappa says, already reaching for his phone.

“That could have gone worse,” Daniela offers.

“He’s not a bad person,” I say. “He deserves to stay.”

“He hired the wrong agent.”

“That was on the team’s list of recommended agents! God, remember what his English was like three years ago? We didn’t help him.”

Daniela shrugged. “He should have done his due diligence. We’re not liable for that. That list was issued before either of us got here. Oskar, you only arrived last summer.”

“It’s so awful.”

“Not every part of this job is good, Oskar. Most of it is.”

“He really doesn’t want to go to Russia, Daniela. It’s just...wrong.”

“Uh-huh.” Daniela rises, smoothing her skirt. “I have another meeting. Thanks for being here.”

She swooshes out of the conference room, and I follow, my heart pounding.