Page 89 of Hail Marry
I can’t afford to think like that. This isn’t all that different from going into a game. Positive thinking is key.
I look at Tori for a few seconds, and my heart twists in that now-familiar way that hints at how important she’s become to me. She went from stranger to the centerpiece of my life.
I slip my phone into the pocket of my sweats, then scoop my free arm under her and slowly pull her onto my lap. Swinging my legs over the side of the sofa, I stand and carry her to her bed.
She doesn’t even stir, which is mind-blowing to me. And if history is any indicator, she’ll be sleeping for a while yet.
My call with Zach is short. He wants to wish us luck with the interview, but the primary purpose of his call seems to be making sure Tori and I plan to go to the sports camp day the Admirals have planned with a local community center called Summit Reach.
“Not only will it be good for your image,” he says, “I think it might help with the Bennett situation. If he meets Tori, he’s bound to like her, and getting to see the two of you together could go a long way to removing any doubts in his mind about the nature of your marriage.”
I don’t bother reminding him that the nature of my marriage to Tori is exactly what Bennett seems to suspect.
“You guys have got great chemistry,” Zach adds.
I suppress the impulse to ask him what he means. I happen to know what he means. It’s the constant explosions of joy and the bubbling need I have for Tori. I just wish I knew if Tori’s ever felt any of it. Sometimes, I think she does. Other times, I tell myself she has great chemistry with everybody. She’s charming and personable. She’d probably have chemistry with a brick wall.
That’s why there’s no one on this earth I feel less equipped to understand than her ex Ryan.
“You ready for this?”Tori turns toward me from the passenger seat. She’s wearing the same thing she wore to our wedding, and I am too. The difference is that today, our marriage isn’t taking place; it’s on the chopping block, as are my NFL career, my presence in the States, and both Tori’s and my liberty.
No biggie.
I take in a big breath, then nod decisively. “I’m ready.”
“Let’s do a practice real quick,” she says, lacing her fingers together and stretching her palms out in front of her. “Get your lying muscles warmed up.”
“I don’t know that I have any of those.”
She scoffs. “You have muscles that would shock anatomy experts. So”—she shifts so her knees are stacked and resting on her seat—“here’s the question: did you think I was crazy when you first met me?” She smiles, her eyes twinkling like she’s just asked me a question I’m going to find impossible to answer truthfully.
I think back to our meeting and the hours at the hospital.
“No.”
Her brows go up. “Wow. That was actuallyreallygood. See? You do have lying muscles.” She turns away and opens her door, blissfully unaware that there was no lying required.
The field office for immigration is in downtown San Diego inside a building covered in dark glass windows. Tori stops a dozen feet shy of the doors.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
She looks at me, then grabs my hand. “We’re entering the domain of strictly necessary PDA. So…anything goes.”
Anything. That’s a very comprehensive word, and yet, I doubt making out with Tori in front of our immigration officer will be necessary.
Unfortunately.
We walk inside, hand-in-hand, and reach the security checkpoint, where we have to let go. We breeze through because, while we might be committing immigration fraud, we aren’trealcriminals.
At least, Tori’s not.
Our time in the waiting room feels like an eternity and yet somehow too short as I mentally review all the things Tori and I have discussed to prepare for this. She grabs my hand again after a few minutes, and even if it’s for show, it helps me relax a bit more.
The door across the hallway opens, and a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and thin glasses appears. He looks down at a paper in his hand, then up at us. “Victoria and Luca Callahan?”
Tori squeezes my hand as we stand and follow him into a small, non-descript room with a table.
“I’m Grant Dawson,” the man says, putting out his hand to shake ours. “I’ll be conducting today’s interview. Please have a seat.”
