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CHAPTER 1
Eli
I lean forward,elbows on my thighs, one step away from the classic head-between-the-knees position to prevent fainting. Clearing my throat, I ask, “To sum up, my options are…?”
The immigration lawyer, with his wispy comb-over and a stain on the center of his baby-blue tie, gives me a tight smile. A pitying one. Which is all I need to know.
I drop my head into my hands with a soft groan.
“I’m afraid you’re out of options,” he says. “You’ll need to return to Canada at the end of the month or risk deportation and a much bigger issue. That is, unless you were planning to get married in the next thirty days.” He laughs.
I don’t.
Malik, the Appies’ manager sitting to my right, doesn’t.
And Grant, the no-nonsense team lawyer in his crisp black suit and stain-free tie, absolutely doesn’t.
Deported.
Married.
DEPORTED.
MARRIED.
Breathe, Hop,I tell myself.
Easier said than done. I wonder how likely it is that this guy keeps a stock of paper bags in his desk for situations just such as this.
Grant glares at the immigration lawyer, whose very unfortunate and very unlawyerly name is Mr. Pebbles. “You, of all people, know getting married solely for immigration purposes is considered fraud.”
Mr. Pebbles holds up both hands like he didn’t just suggest—or joke about?—this exact thing. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” he says, which doesn’t even make sense in this context.
Is this really the best immigration lawyer Grant could find to consult? Maybe in the small town of Harvest Hollow, yes. But neither Asheville nor Knoxville is too far. I don’t know why Grant didn’t consider someone from either of those places. Unless …
Unless there really are no other options.
My insides have coiled into a knot so complicated, it would take a surgeon to untangle everything.
And to think I got out of bed thinking it would be a perfectly lovely day. No practice. No meetings. I slept late, relishing the warm cocoon of my sheets. Rolling out of bed at nine o’clock felt positively indulgent.
Mom sat crisscross applesauce in her favorite chair in the living room, perky and pain-free. I joined her. While she drank coffee and read a book, I sipped a smoothie and checked stocks. Markets opened strong. Things looked good. All in all, a lovely, lazy morning.
During the hockey season, very few days stretch out with zero plans. If not practice and training, it’s filming social mediacontent—both for the team and my account—giving interviews, attending charity events, and so on.
My only plans for the day were to take Mom to the acupuncturist. Then, I hoped to stop by the animal shelter before it closes. Dogs make me happy. Visiting the sad dogs who need homes makes mereallyhappy. Technically, I don’t think I’m supposed to keep coming in if IknowI can’t adopt one. But the shy woman who works there, Bailey, doesn’t seem to mind. She also doesn’t seem to know who I am, which is refreshing. She’s become something of a personal project. More like a challenge.
Can I get her to say more than four words in a row? If so, how many?
At my last visit, she said two sentences in a row,andI almost got her to laugh. There was the tiniest huffing sound before she swallowed it down, which is a win in my book. I’ve started counting her blushes. Keeping a mental tally, my achievements glowing like a scoreboard.
But my hopes for this lovely, aimless day were ruined by my phone, which wouldn’t stop ringing after I set it down.
“Your fans are calling,” Mom said.
But it wasn’t my fans. It was Malik, requesting my presence at the Summit, my first sign that today would turn into a five-alarm dumpster fire. The second sign of the impending apocalypse was seeing Grant in Malik’s office. I should have turned and run.
Instead, Malik drove us in tense silence to this immigration lawyer’s office, which smells like old sub sandwiches. Then I listened to them argue about terms I only vaguely know and understand. P1-A and O1-A and petitions for renewal and so on.
