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

CHAPTER SIX

O skar

“Are you okay?” Dmitri asks, his dark eyes rounded with something like worry. In the dim dawn light, his features look softer than usual.

“Um, I’m okay.” My voice comes out embarrassingly high, more teenage boy than Harvard graduate.

He pulls out his phone, the blue light casting shadows across his sharp cheekbones. I think he’s done talking and checking sports scores, but then he turns the screen toward me. “These are the seats. They’re pretty comfortable.”

A laugh bubbles up despite my nerves. “Did you think I was nervous about the flight? We take, like, a million of those a year.”

“Not million,” he says, his accent thickening with mock seriousness. “You should know. You book them.”

“Trust me, if you booked them, they’d feel like million too.”

He smiles, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Maybe.” He scrunches his lips together. “But we normally fly private.”

“I can deal with non-private, Dmitri.”

Marrying my crush? That’s another story. But I’m handling it.

This is to help Dmitri. And I want to do anything to help him. If marrying him is that thing, then I’ll do it.

Easy.

Nothing strange about it. No way.

“We will need to buy rings in Vegas,” Dmitri says. “I do not know your ring size. I am sorry.”

He looks so genuinely apologetic that my heart twists. The early morning light catches on his dark lashes as he glances down.

“I wouldn’t expect you to know my ring size,” I say. “ I don’t know my ring size.”

“We will measure for you. For both of us.”

“Okay.” My voice still has that breathless quality that I hate.

“Is platinum okay?” He leans closer. “There’s black titanium too.”

“I think platinum is nice.” I stare at my hands, trying to imagine his ring there. “Whatever is cheapest.”

He frowns. “This is your wedding, Oskar. Expense is not an issue.”

“Oh.”

“Need to decide what bands should say.”

“Right.” I swallow hard.

I suddenly wish I’d seen all those wedding shows that my sisters used to watch. Say Yes to the Dress . God, getting into Seeking Mr. Right earlier would probably have helped me too.

“What sort of things are normal practice for putting on rings?”

“It should be a date and something about our love.” He scrunches his lips. “Well, we started hanging out when you joined the Blizzards on June 10 th . We can put that and just ‘I love you.’”

“I love you?”

He turns toward me, and I swear to God that my skin prickles as if rising up toward him.

“You are my best friend. Of course, I do.”

“Right.” I nod hastily, my heart attempting a symphony.

He frowns, then slides his large hand onto my knee. Heat seeps through my pants. “And soon you will be my husband.”

My chest squeezes. Dmitri isn’t supposed to say those words to me. Even in my dreams, and I hate that he appears in them sometimes, since it seems like a betrayal of our friendship that sometimes at night he enters my sleep and does things that he would never want to do.

Because I’m not for him. I never will be.

And I hate that each night when I do go to bed, I wonder if Dream Dmitri will appear. That version who kisses me and does all the things that Real Dmitri would recoil from. The things, God, I haven’t done. The things I’ve only seen when I’ve ventured onto certain webpages.

“Does this make you nervous?”

“No,” I lie, my voice cracking.

We’re friends. And now we’ll be permanently attached on our lifelong paper trails.

“We get platinum rings. Platinum will look good with your hair.” Dmitri runs his fingers through my locks, smiling.

“O-okay.” My cheeks heat.

His dark brows draw together, and he drops his hand. “Remind me to talk to Finn when we get back.”

“What about?”

“Nothing for you to worry about now.”

“That sounds ominous,” I say.

The airport appears ahead, large glass and steel buildings and signs warning about turnoffs.

Our driver pulls to the side of the road, then flashes us a beam that says she overheard the entire conversation

“You guys are so adorable!” she squeals.

“You are fan?” Dmitri asks.

“Of cute guys eloping? Obviously.”

“I mean—” Dmitri’s face reddens, and I press my lips together, stifling any errant laughs from escaping.

The airport bustles around us as Dmitri leads us to the gate, people parting instinctively before his hockey player build.

A few fans stop him for autographs, but finally we are on the plane.

Yesterday we were in a conference room with Vince, discussing his visa problems. Today we’re flying to our wedding.

Dmitri spends the flight scrolling through wedding websites, leaning close to ask questions that make this feel surreal: “Red velvet or buttercream? Pink roses or red? What do you think about doves, Oskar?”

Finally, the plane lands in Vegas. It’s the day, and the strip is not lit up. The buildings jut out inelegantly: the Eiffel Tower, the Pyramids, the Sphinx.

Dmitri leads me from the plane. Slot machines chime and flash even here in the airport terminal. I try to pretend this is all totally normal.

This isn’t my first time in Vegas.

And this isn’t my first time alone with Dmitri.

But though we’ve done touristy things from time to time when we’ve had free time in cities, we’ve never gone away together someplace

People eye him curiously when we walk through the airport. His dark hair and dark eyes and pale, chiseled features are striking. Even those who don’t follow hockey can’t help but stare.

God, I’m so ridiculous. The whole world has a crush on Dmitri Volkov. I shouldn’t be thinking about his height or his shoulders or any of the things that he cannot change about himself. He needs me to be here for him, not acting like someone who’s never seen a movie with a Hollywood A-list star in it.

This is a favor for a friend. A friend who needs me. And if it involves marriage, well, I’m glad I can help him. I wanted him to stay and now there’s a way.

This is no big deal.

A marriage of convenience.

It’s like any other favor. Borrowing sugar. Watering plants. Just involves more paperwork.

We exit the airport, and I pull out my phone. “I’ll order us a ride.”

“No.” Dmitri scans the airport exterior, then juts out his chin.

I follow his gaze, but I only see a limo gliding toward us.

I stiffen.

He didn’t.

Surely not.

Probably not.

But the glossy limo stops before us, and a short man in a uniform gets out, then opens the door, gesturing to us.

“You got us a limo?” My voice cracks.

“Marriages are special, Oskar.” His usual Slavic stoicism softens into something that makes my chest ache. “Happy wedding day.”

I step back, trip over the curb, and go flying.