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

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

D mitri

Vince didn’t sound happy on the phone. He was supposed to sound happy. I fixed the problem.

Instead, his voice climbed higher with each “What!” until he sounded like he might rupture something.

I mean, I’m married to Oskar. He became a US citizen after his family moved here from Sweden. I’ll get my green card. Simple logic, really.

But now Vince wants me at the arena, and my chest feels like I’ve been doing weighted pull-ups.

Something is wrong.

The team doesn’t realize, thankfully. They continue to chatter, and I continue to pretend to follow their conversation.

Maybe it’s just extra paperwork. Administrative details.

It’s fine.

I was efficient. I took care of the visa. I’m married to Oskar.

God. Oskar actually married me.

And even though the morning is turning to be less splendid than I thought it would be, I’m still happy. Because I’m not alone in this world. Not really. Maybe my mother and grandparents are gone, and maybe I never met my dad and I’m not sure if he ever met me, but I have my teammates.

My loud, oblivious teammates who push me to achieve things with my body that I didn’t think was possible and who push me to be better on the ice.

Maybe firing rubber discs into nets for money is an odd way to make a living, but I excel at it. Before the immigration issue, Coach was talking about putting me on the first line when Evan and Vinnie retire. If our team wasn’t so wonderful, I’d be there already.

Footsteps thunder down the hallway.

That’s not necessarily foreboding.

This is a place filled with two-hundred pound plus athletes. Footsteps have a habit of thundering when men of a certain sturdiness march through the hallways.

“Where is he?”

Shit.

That is definitely coach’s voice. But maybe he’s excited. Maybe he wants to give Evan another award for being the perfect captain. Evan collects those like I collect penalty minutes.

And Coach might be speaking loudly, but that’s sort of his thing.

I switch to heavier dumbbells. If I’m getting distracted by hallway noises, I’m not pushing hard enough.

Maybe the only problem is that my hearing got a workout in Vegas. Maybe Vegas heightened my hearing with all those slot machines and pulsing music designed to keep gamblers throwing away money. No drunken whoops or giggling guests or business deals sealed with bourbon here. Seeing how a person acts when drunk and exposed to vices is a technique that businesspeople have followed for thousands of years.

I learned about that watching a documentary with Oskar about ancient Persians. He loves that historical stuff.

So yeah, the shouting is nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

The door crashes open.

The weight room goes silent. Everyone stares at me.

“What did you do?” Noah whispers.

“Nothing,” I lie.

Coach storms in, and I hope that he went to Florida overnight or something and laid out in the sun for hours with no sunscreen, but even I know that that is probably not what happened.

He’s angry.

Angrier than I’ve ever seen him.

Angrier than when that news article came out about how I was in a barroom brawl, and before I had a chance to explain that it was totally the other person’s fault.

He’s furious, and something in my chest tightens. I want him to like me. He’s my father-in-law now. The father of the most important person in my life.

Get up, Volkov!” he roars.

Gasps sound from around the locker room, and I shoot an irritate glance at my teammates, because really, it’s not that strange.

Is it?

Coach’s fist moves upward, and I could duck, but I’ll let him have this win.

“Hi, Daddy,” I say.

His pale blue eyes darken to steel.

Then his fist moves in the air. It’s closer, closer, closer—

Pain explodes across my jaw. The floor rushes up to meet me.

I knew Coach was going to punch me, but he definitely didn’t withhold anything. Pain screeches through my body, and my jaw screams with confusion. Normally, it’s not confronted with anything more painful than an occasional snag with my razor, and the last time that happened was when I was in junior high.

I rub my face. “That hurt!

“It’s supposed to.” Coach advances, and my teammates surge forward.

“Um...” Noah’s voice quavers.

Coach usually breaks up fights, not starts them.

“Maybe you can talk about it?” Finn suggests.

“He deserved it,” Coach growls, glaring down at me.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding—” Troy starts, but I shake my head.

“It wasn’t,” I say, because I won’t pretend this is something it’s not. “Oskar and I got married in Vegas yesterday.”

Jaws drop around us, but I keep my eyes on Coach. He’s the only one who matters right now.

OSKAR

Shouts and crashes echo from the locker room.

Shit.

I push back from the conference table. “I-I think...”

Daniela’s eyes are wide. I bolt toward the locker room, nearly collide with an irritated and much less friendly looking Vince, then scurry past him. When Pappa said he’d fetch Dmitri for the meeting, this wasn’t what I imagined.

The corridor stretches endlessly. More shouts propel me into a run, my dress shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

I burst into the locker room to find Dmitri sprawled on the ground, Pappa looming over him.

“Did you hit him?” My voice cracks.

Pappa doesn’t bother to look at me. “Go to the conference room.”

Instead, I drop to my knees beside Dmitri, my hand hovering over the reddening mark on his face. “Are you hurt?”

He snorts. “I don’t have fever, Oskar.”

Heat floods my cheeks as I snatch my hand back.

He scrambles up, then pulls me up. I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

Pappa stares at our still joined hands. “I can’t believe it.”

Everyone is staring at us.

Finn. Noah. Troy. Axel. Jason.

I bounce my eyes away from their gazes, only to be confronted with a new, stunned expression.

God.

Everyone knows that I have feelings for Dmitri. And everyone knows that Dmitri is straight.

My heart ricochets against my ribs like a badly aimed puck. I stumble, but Dmitri’s shoulder brushes mine, steadying me.

“There’s, um, a meeting in the conference room,” I say. “Vince is there.”

“It will be fine,” Dmitri murmurs with that easy confidence of his.

I nod, but Vince’s thunderous expression suggested otherwise. Nothing about this feels fine at all.