Page 90 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
“Don’t forget we have a game tonight,” Coach reminds me, his voice gruff.
“You’ve got it, Daddy,” I say.
He winces. “Don’t call me that.”
“Thought you might like an American name since your kids call you Pappa.”
“Not something for you to be concerned about.” He rakes a hand through his hair, and I decide I better leave before he starts shouting or something.
How a man as grouchy as Coach could have created a man as sweet as Oskar is one of the mysteries of the universe. A mystery I probably shouldn’t contemplate from the way Coach’s expression is contorting into one of his scowls.
I turn to Oskar. “I should leave. My boss is angry.”
“Furious,” Coach corrects, though amusement ripples through his voice.
“Bye, baby.” I pull Oskar close for a quick kiss, then scamper away before Coach changes his mind about murder.
OSKAR
The door clicks shut behind Dmitri, leaving me alone with Pappa’s scrutiny.
“I suppose you should go after him,” I say. “Important work. Los Angeles.”
Pappa narrows his gaze. “What were you doing in here?”
“He wanted to talk.”
“I don’t like this.”
“He’s not a bad guy, Pappa.”
Pappa sighs. “No, he’s not. Your mother likes him.”
“So do I.”
“Believe it or not, so do I,” Pappa says. “I hired him, after all.”
I nod.
“He’s not a serious man,” Pappa says. “He parties. He’s the reason we enforce curfews.”
“Give him a chance.”
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I know. He’s worth it.”
Pappa presses his lips together. He definitely wants to say more, but I’m grateful when instead he leaves the room. I swallow hard, my heart thudding.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Dmitri
The crowd murmurs differently tonight when the announcer calls my name. They’ve all seen the headlines accusing me of green card fraud. I feel their stares, like skates scraping on my soul.
I scan the stands, imagining how many military veterans sit there, how many proud Americans.
Guilt moves through me.
