Maybe they can help me.
I wait in the locker room where a couple guys have decided to take up residence. I know exactly who I want to talk to. I’m just waiting for the chance to pull him away. This isn’t a conversation I want to have with every member of this team. Nope, one guy will do, and I know who.
The minute Lucca Cruz stands from the gathered group, I tug on his arm, pulling him into the only private space in this place: the showers.
“Whoa,” Lucca grunts.
I yank the shower curtain closed and stand in front of my most obnoxious teammate.
“Graves,” he says, brows raised, looking me up, then down. “Not my thing, man. Besides, didn’t you just get married?”
“Shut up,” I say. I don’t have time for Lucca’s charm or idiocy. “I am going to tell you something that no one else knows. You can’t tell anyone. Understand?”
“Do you know how sealed Brazilians keep their lips?”
“You’re the only Brazilian I know. So, I’d guess not very sealed.” I shrug.
“When it comes to women, maybe not. When it comes to secrets, we are masters. Tell me.” His brows bounce twice, making me wonder if this is a huge mistake.
Am I going to end up in jail for trusting the wrong Red Tail?
Lucca slaps a palm to his chest. “You can trust me, Graveyard.”
And then I spill my guts about Stella, about our marriage, everything about the last two weeks to Lucca Freaking Cruz.
Lucca circles in the small shower. “This makes so much more sense.” He taps a finger to his chin. “Why a girl like that would marry a guy like?—”
“Thanks,” I deadpan. “Instead of insulting me, can we get to the part where you help me? We’re going to have to deal with this green card interview. We’re going to be investigated. Stella isn’t cooperating. How do I make us look legit?”
“You mean, how do we keep both of you out of jail?”
“That too.” I growl out the words and grind my teeth. I should have asked Zev.
Lucca throws one arm around my shoulders, just as the shower head above us drips onto my neck.
“I’ve got it. Ready?” He holds up one hand, dragging out in the air along with his words: “Marriage. Counseling.”
I scoff. “Are you kidding. We’ve been married two weeks.”
He lifts one shoulder in nonchalance. “I’m telling you, my cousin married an American woman, and with notes from their marriage counselor, his green card was approved twice as fast as any other.”
“Is that true?” My brows lower, and I’m thinking—Stella isn’t taking any of this seriously, at least with me, but maybe she would with a counselor. We’d have someone to vouch for us.
“Was Pelé the greatest ball player to walk the earth?” he says in answer to my question. “Of course he was. He wasBrazilian.”
Marriage counseling.
Huh.
That just might work.
Eighteen
I gripthe sides of the pan of green bean casserole—the one Roman made—and sit in the passenger seat of his Bronco. “Is this because I had to take a walk instead of going through the household routine questions with you? Is that why you’re making me do this? I told you, if I don’t walk half a mile before eleven a.m. my legs give out.” I swallow past the lump in my throat as I repeat avoidance tactic number eight. I’m keeping track. I can’t use the same one twice.
“I think we both need this. We haven’t been out of the cabin in over two weeks.”
“Not true. You went into town for groceries. And for that team meeting.”
