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

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

D mitri

Oskar and I perch on opposite sides of the sofa. I extend my hand, and he passes me the folded paper. I smooth out the creases with careful fingers.

“What was our first date?”

Oskar scrunches his forehead. “I guess we could make it anything.”

“We had lunch in Colorado,” I say. “That was the first time we hung out.”

“Yes, but we can’t go back that far. We have to have them think we’ve been secretly dating.”

“That restaurant in New Hampshire?” I suggest. “When there was all the snow?”

He nods, jotting it down.

I lean over his shoulder and read the next line. “Tell me about your past relationships.”

Pink stains his cheeks, and slime sludges through my veins. I don’t want to hear about his past relationships. Don’t want to imagine him with other people, being cherished, being loved. Don’t want to see that faraway look in his eyes that means he’s thinking about someone else

He hesitates. Maybe he’s wondering which relationship to describe first. How many relationships has he had?

None since I’ve known him.

I think.

He hasn’t talked about his relationships with me, but then I haven’t spoken about my relationships with him. I’ve definitely had relationships in the three years since I first met Oskar, but speaking about whichever woman currently was on my arm seemed like a waste when I could be speaking with him about more interesting things.

Who was he dating at Harvard? I picture him arm-in-arm with men in bowties discussing biochemistry. They probably came from wealthy families that sail the Mediterranean and learn languages for fun. They probably never had to push their bodies to physical limits to escape a repressive regime. And they definitely never worried about being sent far away from everything they love.

“I don’t think that answer is necessary,” Oskar says finally.

Something thuds in my chest.

“I thought you were taking this seriously,” I say.

“I am.”

“I should know who your past relationships were with,” I say. “Is something husband should know.”

Oskar shifts on the couch. He pulls his legs away from me, and I hate it. I want to drag them back to where they were, so his calves touch mine.

“You’re not a real husband.”

The words shouldn’t hurt. I know that. They shouldn’t detonate through my body like an explosion.

“We’ll tell them we don’t believe in sharing that information,” he says. “Tell them that the only relationship that matters is our relationship.”

I stare at him. “Seriously?”

“Uh-huh.” He nods firmly at the dark television screen, avoiding my eyes. I cross my arms. “No.”

He turns to me. His mouth drops, then he quickly moves his gaze away from me. He’s focusing again on the TV, even though it’s currently just a dark screen. “I refuse.”

Uneasiness slithers through me. “I see.”

He rises. “I should do some work.”

“You’re not in the office, Oskar.”

“I want a head start for tomorrow.”

“But—”

“Are you going to say what I do isn’t important?”

I shake my head quickly. I know better than that.

“These questions are important too,” I say finally.

He sighs, and his long lashes flutter down. He rakes a hand through his silky blond curls, and his soft, full lips transform into a pout. “Do you want to talk about your past relationships?”

“Is on paper. Is not desire.”

“What should I know?” he asks finally.

“Nothing was serious,” I say. “You’re the first person I lived with.”

He gives me a weak smile. “There was that woman you took to Isaiah’s wedding last year.”

“Rebecca.”

“And you were pretty close with Madison,” he says.

“Just casual,” I say. “You know how it is.”

His face whitens, and he shoots me another one of those wobbly smiles I absolutely despise.

“We weren’t close,” I say. “Not really.”

“Who were you close with?”

I frown.

“Have you been in love?”

I open my mouth. Then shut it.

“I don’t have a tragic love story in my past, Oskar. I met lots of nice women that I had lots of nice times with. Is simple.”

“Oh.” His brow remains wrinkled.

Should I have been in love with someone before? That’s normal too, isn’t it? But I’ve seen Finn and Noah, Luke and Sebastian, Vinnie and Evan.

And what I’ve had with the people I dated... well, it wasn’t that. My past relationships were about having fun. About having sex and going to events together. They never lasted long. The women I chose weren’t expecting a forever with me, just stories they could tell their friends. I was one of a string of pro athletes, and I’m pretty sure they were waiting for the doctor or finance guy who had a job that would make money over the coming decades. I’m in my prime, and once I’m sent back to Russia, it will be over.

I’ll be through with the NHL, through with my life here. Through with my friends, through with the job I love, through with spending time with Oskar.

“Is okay if you don’t want to talk about your past relationships,” I say.

Oskar nods, but for some reason his eyes dart away in a manner that I might term guilty.

But that doesn’t make sense.

When his phone buzzes, he leaps for it. In the next moment, he’s speaking to his mother about visiting for family dinner and bringing me. I listen to him chatter, watch his shoulders lessen in tension, and see him throw his head back as he laughs at whatever his mother is saying.

Maybe I’m not supposed to watch someone have a phone conversation, and I pull my gaze away.

I’m going to family dinner with Oskar.

And the last time I saw his dad, he punched me.

When Oskar hangs up the phone, I pull him toward me. His blue eyes widen.

“Dmitri?” His brows dart upward.

I should probably let go of his wrist.

I don’t.

“So, um, how do I impress your mother?”

“You want to impress my mother.”

“I mean, I really didn’t impress your dad. She’s sort of my last hope.”

His pink lips swerve upward. “She’ll like you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“She married a hockey player too.”

“You did not just compare me to your dad.”

His eyes round, then his mouth. “Um, no way. I mean, your hair is darker, and your voice is...”

“Is?”

“Nicer?” His cheeks pinken together, but I just nod. Of course my voice is nicer.

“You compared us,” I say. “So tragic. You know what happens now?”

He shakes his head.

“Punishment!” Then I pull him toward me and tickle him until he’s writhing below me, and his blue eyes are dancing, and his tenor voice is squealing beneath me and all I can smell is his sweet skin.

My cock hardens, and I release Oskar.

Shit.

His eyes round. “Is something wrong?”

I give a wobbly smile. “You won this time.”

He raises his arms in a victory pose, like he’s Charles de Gaulle or something, then he bounds away. I quickly adjust myself, because I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to get hard from tickling someone.

My heart thunders. Strange.

Maybe it’s been too long since I slept with someone. That’s probably it. Nothing more. Obviously.