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I nod to keep him talking. This is the part where he tells me he already came up with a solution to our problem and this guy is going to fast-track my application.
I knew James would redeem himself.
He continues, “I mentioned that you were planning to propose, and he said that he just had a couple cancel their appointment for three weeks from now. He could slide you into their spot.”
What?… propose?
Who gave James that idea?
It sure as hell wasn’t me.
“You want me to marry Amelia? That’s your solution to this problem?” I ask, my hand pinching at my hips.
“You’re going to marry her anyway, aren’t you?” he argues quickly.
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
Because the truth is… I hadn’t. Marriage hasn’t been on my short list of priorities recently.
“These appointments don’t become available every day. He’s giving us a real opportunity here,” James says, with a raised eyebrow.
“He’s going to slide us into a spot… just like that?” I ask, my eyebrow raised in question at the convenience of it.
James's lips crinkle at the left corner of his mouth for a second. His ‘tell’ when he knows I won’t like something he has to say.
“Well… he’s a die-hard Hawkeyes fan with money on a hockey bracket where your team wins the Stanley Cup this season.”
There it is…
“No more immigration paperwork… no more extensions. Permanent residency.”
“I have a permanent residence… in Canada.” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest.
I love the United States, and I appreciate the opportunities I’ve had here, but Canada is still home. It’s where I was born and raised, and it's where my entire family still lives. Even though I haven’t thought much about settling down since my career has been my top priority, I always figured I’d do it in the same town I grew up in outside of Toronto.
I never expected I would outlive the four-and-a-half-year average lifespan of an NHL career. Even the top twenty-five percent of NHL players only see twelve years on average. At thirty-six, I’m still playing at the top of my game but I can’t expect to stay here forever. My body has been beat down, and my mom hasn’t let up for a second about me starting a family. She likes to remind me that my baby sister is going to have kids before me at this rate.
“We’ve discussed your plans for your life in Canada, after the NHL. I know you want to follow in your father’s footsteps and coach after retirement…but that day isn’t today. Don’t you want one more Stanley Cup win before you bow out?”
He knows I do, especially with the Hawkeyes.
I’ve got one championship win under my belt, but it was during my early years with a team I didn’t stay with for long before getting traded. I haven’t tasted victory in almost fifteen years. I want one more shot at it, and I want to do it with a team that’s felt more like a family than any other team I’ve ever played for.
If I’m standing on the other side of the border watching my teammates hoist the Stanley Cup over their heads, that loss might haunt me for the rest of my life.
“Marry Amelia…” I mutter to myself.
I process the thought while staring down at my brown leather boots against the light oak floors of James’s office.
I’ve always had a positive outlook on the idea of meeting someone and settling down but my focus has been to reach the peak of my career. Now, with this impending immigration issue, my career might end before I hold that coveted cup.
Amelia and I met only a couple of months before the season started and our weeks don’t often match up. Some weeks, the only time I see her is when she’s over at my house snapping photos in my jersey or off the balcony of my penthouse, all for social media.
She used to come to all of my home games, but since we started dating, she travels now as much as I do for product placement deals.
We’re exclusive, but I never considered our relationship to be serious.
“Amelia is perfect. You’ve crossed the social continental divide with your relationship. It’s boosted both of your careers to be connected and done wonders in your offerings for endorsements,” he says, turning from me and pulling up a notepad he had on the corner of his desk. “We just had a meeting on the new deals coming through for you. A major cologne brand reached out just yesterday wanting you as their brand ambassador, and a huge fashion line wants you to do their Christmas campaign for next year. There’s big money on this legal pad,” he says, flopping the yellow pad of paper up and down as if to entice me.
