Page 107 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
I nod and tell myself that this is all completely fine and all completely going to go well.
I keep on telling myself that as we walk down the corridor to the office, and I keep on telling myself that as we stop in front of an office.
We’ve got this.
We’ve totally got this.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Dmitri
I am not scared.
I am Dmitri, and I do not get scared.
My heart might be beating like crazy, but it’s always good to get some extra blood flow in. I give a curt nod in the direction of the middle-aged woman behind the desk. She’s wearing a bright green blazer.
See? Not scary. Green is a good color. Grass is green. Bushes are green. And plants too.
Her eyes are beady and look at me intently, as if I’m already doing the interview.
The point is that I am not scared. I am Dmitri Volkov. I made it all the way from Russia to play for the NHL. I’m not going to be sent back now. No way.
She gestures in the direction of some seats. Vince takes the seat in the back, between Oskar and me. I try to think of his presence as reassuring and not think that we’re being surrounded on all sides by people scrutinizing our relationship, and not thinking that they sort of maybe, maybe sort of definitely have a point.
But even though Vince is presenting me as his client, I can’t forget his distaste and horror when he found out that I’d married Oskar, and I can’t forget that he knows that he asked me in the meeting if there was someone I was considering marrying.
Sweat beads my forehead. The back of my neck itches, as does my lower back. I suddenly regret wearing a suit to this meeting. I wanted to show that I took this seriously, but I feel like I’m playing pretend, and I’m scared that they’ll think I’m playing pretend.
“So you’re Dmitri Volkov.” The immigration officer, whose name is Ruth Santoro, eyes me.
“Yes.”
She turns to Oskar. “And you’re the man who married him. Oskar Holberg.”
“Yes,” Oskar says, his voice clear and un-nervous sounding.
My shoulders ease. He’s doing great. But of course he is. He is Oskar and he is wonderful.
Ms. Santoro eyes glitter. “I see you haven’t changed your name?”
She addresses Oskar.
“No, that’s a bit old-fashioned,” Oskar says, his voice confident.
“But we might still do it!” I interject hastily.
Oskar tenses. Vince tenses.
Shit.
I guess interrupting isn’t highly regarded?
“Is that so, Mr. Volkov?” Ms. Santoro asks, her smirk growing. “I suppose you want your new husband to take your name?”
“Um, no.”
Vince pulls his legs more tightly toward him, and his feet slide across the thin, bumpy low-pile, tan-and-brown carpet tile.
