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

CHAPTER NINE

D mitri

Oskar is still trembling when I lead him to the wedding chapel. In the elevator, he keeps darting glances my way, then pressing himself against the far wall as if the metal rail might protect him from something.

The elevator display flashes: WEDDING CHAPEL.

“Think they label it that way to inspire spontaneous weddings, or because their guests are too drunk to read smaller text?” Oskar asks.

“Neither applies to us. I knew we should marry, and I’m completely sober.”

“You had some champagne.”

“Unlike Noah, I am not lightweight.”

Oskar snorts. “I wish I’d gone to that party. I just saw the aftermath on the ice.”

I shake my head. “One does not wish to hear someone throw up, Oskar. The sound is...”

“Unpleasant?”

“Worse than those Broadway songs you make me listen to.”

“Hey! Don’t insult musicals!”

“They are too happy. Is unrealistic.”

“Guess I’ll have to make you watch more of them.”

“Is impossible task.” I hesitate. “Which one will you torture on me first?”

Oskar scrunches his forehead, and I’m glad he’s thinking about something besides whatever is making him nervous.

He’s still thinking as we step from the elevator, and he’s still thinking as we walk to the wedding chapel room.

“Mr. Volkov!” A man with perfectly gelled hair waves us forward. “Right this way. Just fill out these forms and we’ll begin.”

He guides us to a room that would make French royalty gape. Gold leaf spirals across every surface, crystal dripping from the ceiling. Even the air smells expensive - some floral scent mixing with polished wood.

Oskar scans the opulent space. “I expected Elvis.”

“Is your wedding. I not let guy with questionable hair marry us.”

“Sideburns were the thing to wear at that time,” Oskar says.

“Is good we live now.”

Oskar’s lips swerve up. “You could pull off sideburns.”

“I can pull off anything. You though...” I trace his hairline, then move my fingers along his high cheekbones, where his sideburns would go. “If you had sideburns, they would go here and stop here.”

Something makes my fingers zing, and I drop my hands.

“And?”

I shrug, trying to steady my voice. “Wouldn’t be worst thing. You could hide them under a hat.”

His eyes flash. “I wouldn’t need a hat to look good.”

“Guess we’ll never know. Unless you want to grow them and see if people start gifting you hats?”

“Let’s not test that theory.”

He picks up the marriage paperwork and I hold my breath. Will this be too real for him? Will he say, never mind, a marriage to you is not for me?

But he merely grabs a pen and starts filling in details with his precise handwriting. When he finishes, he looks up with a grin that makes my chest tight. I realize I still need to complete my portion.

He smirks. “Need help remembering your name?”

He grabs the paper and fills out everything for me. His nose wrinkles, and I have an odd urge to count each rarely seen crease.

“Oh, you are adorable.” A woman with fluffy hair and a sparkling cocktail dress says claps her hands.

The smile on Oskar’s face drifts away. He shifts from me slightly.

I squeeze his hand, because that seems to brighten him when he gets lost in thinking.

“Yes. He’s adorable,” I say firmly. “Come, Oskar. Let’s get married. Then we can relax and celebrate.”

The woman giggles.

“We had long flight,” I explain, drawing Oskar closer. “Boston to Vegas.”

“That is quite a trip.” She studies our paperwork. “And you only booked this today?”

“Yes.”

“I have to ask if you’re certain about the wedding...”

“Ah.” Relief floods through me at an easy question. “We’ve known each other long time. Oskar is my best friend.”

Her expression softens. “That’s sweet.”

I nod happily. “He’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Her eyes soften even further, as if she’s attempting to make hearts spring in her eyes like they do in silly cartoons, and she opens the door to the wedding chapel.

Oskar’s gaze darts around the space, which is as French-inspired and romantic as the rest of the hotel. Chubby cupids stare down from the ceiling, and the rounded walls in this circular room are adorned with ornate gold moldings everywhere.

“You like it,” I murmur to Oskar.

“How could I not?”

I grin. I’m happy that I convinced the hotel to arrange a last-minute wedding. I wasn’t going to marry Oskar in some grimy location. I can plan better weddings than Finn.

The woman explains the procedure to us, then we’re standing in front of the altar.

“Please join your right hands.” I link my fingers with Oskar’s.

Heat zooms through my body, even though the room seemed to be at a normal temperature before.

His eyes are wide, and I peer at the way his long lashes flicker upward and the slight part of his pink lips as he scrutinizes me.

He’s shorter than I am, shorter than the other guys on the team. He peers up at me, his gaze trusting, even when no one’s trusted me before.

God, I want this to be perfect for Oskar. I don’t want to disappoint him. He’s giving me so much. He’s giving me an opportunity to stay in the country I love. An opportunity to spend more time with him. An opportunity I don’t take for granted.

Maybe he senses my nervousness, because he squeezes my hand, and just like that, something in me settles.

We’re doing this together. I’m not alone.

I flew to the US from Russia, the only Russian on the Blizzards. And even though Oskar is not on the team, we grew close after he joined the Blizzards staff. He understood being new to the US in a way no one else did. I don’t want to return to Russia, and now, because of Oskar I won’t have to. He fixed what the expensive immigration lawyer couldn’t.

The marriage officiant begins to speak, and I smile at Oskar.

God, this is our wedding.

Emotions surge through me, and I study Oskar’s face, my gaze bouncing from his high cheekbones to his full pink lips and the way they tremble, to his large eyes that seem to be landing on my lips again and again.

Almost as if...

Right. The kiss. This is a wedding. We’re supposed to kiss. Obviously he’s thinking about that. Oskar thinks about everything.

“I now pronounce you husband and husband,” the officiant declares with a beam.

My heart speeds up. I never thought I would be here, standing in a wedding chapel, about to kiss my best friend. I never thought someone would be willing to reshape their life for me. Even when this ends, we’ll be connected forever together.

“You may now kiss,” the officiant says.

Oskar steps away and does some sort of half giggle and shake of the head to the officiant. “We, um...” He clears his throat. “We don’t—”

The smile disappears from the officiant’s face, and confusion sits in her eyes.

Does Oskar think that I won’t kiss him? On our wedding day?

I pull him close, feeling his slender frame align with mine. We’ve sat together countless times, but this is different. I feel his heartbeat against my chest. His elegant fingers curl against my shoulders. His lashes flutter up, uncertainty creasing his brow.

God, this is our wedding.

Of course, it comes with a kiss.

When this ends and I have my green card, I don’t want him remembering that his first husband wouldn’t even kiss him.

I cup his cheek, tilting his face up to mine. His skin is warm silk under my palm.

“You don’t have to,” he whispers, breath feathering against my lips.

“I know,” I say, because of course we could walk out.

He quivers in my arms, and I run my hands along his slender back because maybe I can ease some of his worry. I glance into his eyes to make sure he doesn’t have a problem with kissing me. But his gaze is trusting, almost wondrous, and I run my hand through his short hair.

I brush my lips against his, waiting until he parts them. There’s no way Oskar is getting just a peck on his wedding day.

I trace the seam of his lips with my tongue, like I’ve done hundreds of times before, with hundreds of willing women. He doesn’t smell like department store perfume. He smells masculine. His body is hard instead of soft and curved and pliant. But then I’ve seen him in the gym. I know his compact frame is composed of muscular planes, even if they’re less developed and bulging than the team players. They don’t need to be. He just needs to be healthy, because I want him to have a happy, long life.

He gasps softly against my mouth, the sound barely audible—but I hear it. When I suck his lower lip, his tongue meets mine and electricity shoots through me. My cells dance. But then, I have a warm body in my arms. His tongue doesn’t move at once, as if I’ve managed to take his breath away, as if he’s inexperienced. As if no one’s kissed him this way before.

I smile against his mouth, because life is super strange, but now I’m going to be staying in the US, and everything is wonderful.

I dip him downward, because if I’m going to do something, I’m going to make it fantastic.

And kissing Oskar...God, it’s easy to make it super good. Holding him in my arms, moving my tongue against his, is great. Natural. Maybe because we know each other so well.

When Oskar’s waist is parallel to the ground, I realize this is probably enough. I straighten us both and find his eyes glazed, lips pink and parted.

I’m grateful to him. No wonder electricity thrums through my veins.