Page 11 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
“Of course not. Is waste of money.” His look turns stern, like the statues of Roman generals in the MFA. “And you shouldn’t gamble either. We have plans.”
“What plans, Dmitri?”
“I am not leaving the States,” Dmitri vows, his expression serious.
“But—”
Then a wide grin splits his face, and his eyes turn to diamonds. “We are going to get married.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Dmitri
Oskar’s eyes widen, his long lashes flicking up. His pink lips drop somewhere to the floor.
Then he starts to giggle. Peals of angel laughter flutter through the kitchen, bouncing over the subway backsplash to the narrow, specially ordered dishwasher, and the exposed brick wall. His silky blond hair gleams as he moves, his long neck tilting back like he’s sharing his glee with the heavens.
Appropriate behavior for any angel.
My shoulders relax. My stomach settles. My heart slows.
“For a moment there...” He laughs again, and I laugh with him, relief moving through me. I thought he’d be angrier.
But then this is Oskar.
He snorts, then he puts the full force of his blue eyes on me. “What are we really doing?”
My throat dries. “I told you.”
“But—” He swallows hard, and he presses his lips, now paler than before, together.
“We’re going to Vegas,” I repeat. “To get married. Will you marry me, Oskar?”
Uncertainty moves through me.
He might say no.
I thrust away the intrusive thought in my mind. That’s like thinking that we might lose our next game or next three games or our next ten games.
Technically possible, but nothing worth thinking about.
“You’re not serious,” he says.
“I need a green card,” I explain, speaking slowly and enunciating like they taught us in English class. I want there to be no mistake with my accent.
“So you want to marry me?”
I nod.
“But I’m...” His face pinkens. Colors I don’t normally see speckle his cheeks. His pupils dilate. “I’m...”
“Yes?”
He gestures to himself, jerking his hand toward his torso, his narrow wrist moving. “A man.”
“I know biology, Oskar.”
He licks his lips. “Um. Yes. But you’re not—” He wrinkles his brow, and there’s something adorable in the way he does it. He opens his mouth again. “You’re a...” He shuts his mouth, then tries again. “But you’re straight?”
