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What I do understand: I have to go back to Canada to file a new visa. But this could take time, and there’s no guarantee I’ll keep my spot on the team. The Appies may be an AHL team, butwe’re arguably as recognizable as any NHL team now, thanks to social media.
Guys arebeggingto get traded here. And I have—or had, until now—no intention of going anywhere.
How did this even happen? Between the team’s administrative staff and me being a functioning adult, there’s no good reason. I could have gone to Canada in the off-season this summer and taken care of this. Had I remembered or been reminded by the people who manage this stuff that I needed to do so.
When I first got signed to Denver and moved stateside, I was eighteen. Mom handled talking to the team about the visa stuff. I have avaguememory of hearing about the cap on my visa. How I could renew here after five years but would need to go back to Canada after ten. I also remember thinking this seemed like a problem for Later Eli.
Hello, Later Eli. I wish I could say it’s good to see you. But it’s really,reallynot.
I lean back in my chair, playing with a pen I found on Mr. Pebbles’s desk. “You’re sure there’s no loophole? A clause? An extra payment option?”
Grant’s eyes cut to me. “No. You’ll go back to Canada, apply for a new visa, then wait for processing. Any other suggestions”—he glares at Mr. Pebbles again—“would be fraud and”—now he glares at me like any of this wasmyidea—“is not condoned by the Appies organization.”
“No one suggested fraud,” Mr. Pebbles says, though I’m pretty positive that’s exactly what he suggested. He runs a hand down his tie, finally noticing the dark stain I’ve spent half this meeting trying to identify. Ketchup? Soy sauce? Chocolate? His frown makes me wonder ifheeven knows its origin.Gross.
Now, though, I have much more pressing concerns than the mystery stain. Like, for example:deportation.What this willmean for my spot on the Appies. The rest of this season, my career.
And what this will mean for my mom.
I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling and picturing Mom’s smile this morning. The way the sunlight made her hair look more gold like mine, like hers used to be before the white crept in. I imagine the happiness draining from her face, replaced by worry and disappointment.
Mr. Pebbles puts both elbows on his desk, which is cluttered with papers. “I only meant if Eli is dating someone, you could push the timeline up a little. Or, you know, alot.”
He waves a dismissive hand like neither fraud nor asking a woman to push up a wedding timeline are serious things.
I’ve watched enough episodes ofSay Yes to the Dresswith Mom to know he’s wrong, at least about the second one. I’m sure there’s a meme somewhere, featuring Boromir fromLord of the Ringsand the wordsOne does not simply ask a bride to move up her wedding date.I’d love to see Mr. Pebbles try telling a bride not to take a change in date seriously.
You know what’s hard to take seriously? A lawyer with a last name like Pebbles. That’s what.
Malik leans forward in his chair, catching my gaze. His brown eyes are hopeful.Waytoo hopeful. “It would just be like fast-tracking a relationship. Aren’t you dating someone? That girl with the … um …”
I can’t blame the man for not knowing details about my current girlfriend. Considering the fact that she doesn’t exist.
I drag a hand down my face and look away. “I’m not seeing anyone I was planning to propose to in the next month.”
It’s not, technically speaking, a lie.
I’mnotdating anyone I would propose to in the next month. In fact, my dating life is blanketed in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. Not for lack of trying, either. Oh, how I’ve tried. Maybeif I wanted what most guys in my position—young, professional athletes—want, it wouldn’t be hard to find company. Something casual.
But I’m a not-so-closet romantic, and I haven’t dated someone seriously in a good, long while. Which is no one’s business in this room but mine.
“But you could at least discuss the idea,” Malik suggests.
“Somehow, I don’t think she’d be on board with this.” Because she doesn’t exist.
“I’m not hearing this conversation,” Grant says, actually putting his hands over his ears.
“Once again, it’s not fraud if the marriage is legitimate between two people involved romantically who were planning to get married anyway,” Mr. Pebbles insists.
Grant glowers, the hands over his ears clearly not blocking out any sound. He looks ridiculous this way, and if I were in a better mood, I’d snap a picture and send it to the team group chat. “Please stop saying the wordfraud.”
As we ride back to the Summit, me in the backseat like a child and Grant and Malik arguing up front like two parents on the cusp of an ugly divorce, I stare out at the mountains. I’ve grown used to this view. Ilovethis view. Even though I’ve spent more collective time on other teams and in other cities, the Appies feel like family. Harvest Hollow feels like home.
I could lose all this if I leave in a month. My teammates, some of whom have become the closest thing I’ve known to brothers. My career, which has grown exponentially since I transferred to the Appies.
And this won’t just affect me. It will have just as much impact on my mom.
“We'll get this sorted out, Hop,” Malik says as we pull through the gates for the Summit’s player and staff parking.
