Page 62 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
“Maybe you should let Dmitri go,” I suggest.
“Oh, you squeeze him enough at home,” Linnea says, still clutching hold of Dmitri. “It’s my turn now.”
“That’s not how marriage works.”
“You’re an expert on marriage?” Pappa appears behind her, voice dry.
“I-I didn’t see you,” I stammer.
“I wasn’t going to run to answer the door for him.” Pappa sneers in Dmitri’s direction, then extends a stiff handshake. “Let him go, Linnea.”
Linnea releases Dmitri reluctantly, then she spreads out her arms wide. “Welcome to the family.”
Pappa rolls his eyes. “Don’t get attached to him.”
“He’s Oskar’s husband!” Linnea squeals.
“Yeah, he’s Oskar’s husband!” Olivia says, squealing louder, and proving that size and vocal diaphragm size are not predictable.
“Not all family members are forever,” Pappa says helplessly.
Linnea’s lower lip trembles, and even Dmitri looks a shade paler.
“What nonsense are you saying in front of the children?” Mamma appears, swatting Pappa aside and pulling Dmitri into the house.
I got my fine bones and slender frame from her, but she has no trouble manhandling hockey players.
“Welcome to the family, Dmitri. We’re so happy you’re here.”
Dmitri’s eyes widen, but he gives my mother a serious nod. “Thank you. I-I appreciate it.”
“Ingrid,” Pappa says. “You know things aren’t like that.”
Mamma raises an accusatory eyebrow, and Pappa glances at Linnea before his shoulders slump.
I’m pretty sure that Pappa told Mamma the marriage is fake, and they decided not to tell Linnea and Olivia I’m glad they didn’t. Preteens are hardly known for their discretion.
“This is from Dmitri,” I say, handing Mamma the bottle of red wine.
She studies the label. “From Tuscany. How wonderful.”
“The person at wine store said it was good,” Dmitri says, his usual confidence absent.
My mother frowns in his direction, craning her slender neck upward. “What happened to your face?”
Pappa shoots a guilty glance in our direction.
“Is no big deal,” Dmitri says. “Hockey is rough.”
Mamma shakes her head. “The amount of time I used to worry about my husband.”
Pappa’s guilty expression intensifies.
“I’m sure he could take care of himself,” Dmitri offers. “Still can.”
“I think dinner is ready,” Pappa interrupts. “Dining room, everyone!”
Linnea and Olivia race through the house, sliding across polished floors while Pappa shouts at them to behave.
