Page 12 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
His voice rises at the end, like a question, and his cheeks turn even pinker. I frown.
I don’t want him to be uncomfortable.
“You are gay. You shouldn’t panic at the thought of marrying a man. Someday you will marry a man.”
“It seems you want that day to be today.”
“Yes.”
“But you like women.”
“Yes.”
“You could ask a woman to marry you. You could probably get someone to say yes.”
I blink. “Of course.” I frown at him. “I am excellent match, Oskar. I am millionaire hockey player on television.”
His eyes go funny.
“And good looking,” I add. “Teeth in place.”
“You’d still look handsome without your teeth,” he says, then his eyes widen. “I just mean because you can get them fixed and things. So don’t, um, stress about that.”
“Of course I would still look handsome without my teeth.”
I don’t think that’s something that might make him question whether or not to marry me, but best to not give him any reasons to say no.
“Pack,” I say.
“But—”
“Flight leaves. We get on it. Planes don’t wait, Oskar.”
He rakes a trembling hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m aware of that.”
“Of course. You make transportation bookings. Is difficult job. Many flights. Many players. Need to make good bookings.”
He nods, his look somewhat glazed. His eyes drift to my mouth. Maybe he’s trying to imagine what it would be like if I had fewer teeth.
I wish Luke had had more topics of conversation to discuss when he was on his dating show last month than teeth and hockey injuries, but I suppose he was more distracted by the host than the female contestants.
I give Oskar another nod. “Now, Oskar.”
“We need to talk about it—”
“We can,” I say. “On way to airport. I don’t want to miss our wedding.”
He swallows hard. His gaze flits around my face, and I sigh.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” His voice is squeaky, and his eyes
“I forgot to make you coffee,” I apologize. “Brain processing is slow without it.”
He frowns. “My brain processes...fine.”
“I help you pack.” I march toward his background, conscious of his feet pattering behind me. He’s lighter than me, but I still hear every footstep over the hardwood floor.
