Page 4 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
Dmitri nods, but the crease on his forehead doesn’t ease as much as I want it to. The silence that follows feels heavier than when the team left the playoffs last year.
Dmitri tosses his dark hair. The strands always get into his eyes. I spread my hands against the polished wooden table, lest I feel compelled to do something crazy, like smooth it away from his face.
“When do I have to go?” Dmitri’s voice is small.
I hate it.
I hate all of this.
Daniela smiles, happy that there’s a question she knows the answer to.
I want to say something that will make it better.
I want to tell him that my heart is breaking, that I do care. That I’m not just uttering platitudes.
But the statement is impossible.
It involves revealing all the things that I’ve locked away. All the things that make Dmitri’s teammates look at me with sympathy, their eyes round, whispering to each other in my presence, when they see me look at Dmitri for too long.
I focus on the manila folder instead. I memorize the color and the way the edges feel against my fingers.
But all I can think about is Dmitri.
It’s so unfair. So outrageously terrible.
Dmitri came to this country to play hockey and he’s done a remarkable job. The Blizzards are one of the top teams in the country. We might win the Stanley Cup.
He’s not here to get money from the government. He has a job. A great one. A job that needs him.
Maybe he’s on the second line, but that’s because the first line is incredible and was formed years ago.
God, all Dmitri did was focus on the game. That’s what he’s supposed to do.
Dmitri inhales. “There’s nothing that can be done?”
“Not with an employment visa, unfortunately. You need to return back to Russia. You can continue the immigration process in your own country.”
“This isn’t the end, Dmitri,” Pappa assures him. “You’re a great player.”
“I can’t return to Russia. Is out of question.”
Vince’s smile is more professional than sympathetic. “I don’t suppose you have a secret girlfriend you’re about to propose to?”
Dmitri blinks. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“US immigration doesn’t want their citizens’ spouses to be sent away.”
“Oh.”
“But since you’re single, that’s irrelevant.” Vince shrugs.
“I see.” Dmitri rises. Six feet four inches of Russian muscle saunter away, and the door clicks shut.
“Well, I should get back to my office,” Vince says. “I’ll send the invoice.”
“Let us know if you think of anything else,” I say.
“He broke too many rules. I’m good, but I’m not magical.”
