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“Yeah, that’s why we have to get married within the K-1 visa time frame,” I tell her.
“But I thought deportation was for like… normal people. You’re famous. Don’t you get… like… special treatment? A celebrity’s phone line you could call to talk to someone more senior to push you through?”
I decide against telling her that the person pushing us through the fiancé visa could be giving us special treatment by giving us a cancelation, although I don’t know how they run their schedules, maybe that’s allowed. I just can’t imagine that what James’s “buddy” is doing would look good on his annual review if his superiors found out that he was giving favors out to a favored championship team due to a gambling bet he made.
“The immigration office is strict. If I don’t get married, I’ll get deported and have to wait out my new application. With the championship only a few months away, the Hawkeyes will have no choice but to drop me and fill my position,” I tell her.
“You won’t be a hockey player anymore?” she asks, her eyes narrowing on me again.
“No… I guess I won’t.”
“What happens if you get deported and we’re married?”
“I thought you might come live with me for a while. Just until I get my visa straightened back out.”
“Live in Canada! Are you crazy?” she asks, but it doesn’t sound like a question.
“You can film anywhere, right?” I say, reaching for her hand again but she pulls it away for the second time.
That’s not a good sign.
“Ryker, I was created for the spotlight. I need a place to shine. Who would I be if I’m just some old has-been ex-hockey player’s wife, who lives in Canada?” she asks, a grimace in her voice as she says the name of my beloved country.
“You’d be with me. We’d be together. We could make a whole life in Canada. It’s beautiful there—”
She bends down, grabs the overpriced handbag that I got her for Christmas, and then stands. The diamond earrings I bought her for her birthday catch and glitter in the mood lighting of the restaurant.
“It’s nothing personal, Ryker,” she says.
She steps forward, gently running her hand over my cleanly shaven jaw.
She never liked it when I grew out my facial hair. “It’s just that being a professional player's girlfriend is part of my brand now. Don’t you get it?”
She bends down and kisses me on the lips, and I’m stunned into silence, trying to figure out where this conversation derailed off the tracks that I let her plant a kiss on my lips.
Her lips used to taste like the signature Chanel lipstick she always wears, and her hair used to smell like the expensive hairspray she coats it with every day. But now, she tastes and smells like the jersey jumper she pretended not to be.
She turns to leave and I set my eyes on the lipstick smear she left on her wine glass instead of watching her walk out of the restaurant. The tealight candle set between our two chairs flickers as I listen to her high heels click-clack all the way to the exit, and then I listen for the sound of the doorman opening the door for her as she walks out into the windy Seattle January evening.
What the fuck just happened?
Chapter Three
Three Weeks Later
Juliet
“I know what I want for Christmas next year,” my assistant and best friend Shawnie says.
We both stand up out of our hockey stadium seats now that the game has ended and the Hawkeyes hockey players are all exiting the arena.
The stadium is filled with excited energy as overjoyed and some drunk fans celebrate the Hawkeyes’ win tonight. Fans from the out-of-town team that sunk sport permanent frowns.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” I ask, over the stadium music blaring through the speakers.
“A big hockey player wrapped up in a red bow, and sitting under my Christmas tree with mistletoe.”
I laugh as we make our way out of our row. I follow behind her, watching her auburn hair cascade down her back in loose curls.
