Signed Copy - A Groom of One's Own by Emma St. Clair

CHAPTER ONE SAMPLE

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 media content—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 me really happy. Technically, I don’t think I’m supposed to keep coming in if I know I 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, and I 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. 

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, but we’re arguably as recognizable as any NHL team now, thanks to social media. 

Guys are begging to 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 a vague memory 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, really not.

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 was my idea—“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 if he even knows its origin. Gross.

Now, though, I have much more pressing concerns than the mystery stain. Like, for example: deportation. What this will mean 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, a lot.” 

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 of Say Yes to the Dress with Mom to know he’s wrong, at least about the second one. I’m sure there’s a meme somewhere, featuring Boromir from Lord of the Rings and the words One 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. Way too 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’m not dating 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. Maybe if 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 word fraud.”

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. I love this 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.

I meet Malik’s eyes briefly in the rearview mirror. “Exactly how will this get sorted out?” 

My leg bounces and I shift, pressing a hand on top of my knee, like that will be enough to quiet the anxiety coursing through me. Malik parks, then shoots Grant a quick look before twisting to face me. 

“Would it be so hard to move things along with whomever you’re seeing?”

Ah, yes. The girlfriend I made up spur-of-the-moment twenty minutes ago. Her. I should have known the not-technically-a-lie would come back to bite me.

“If you're going to commit fraud, I can’t know about it.” Grant swivels around, directing his trademark pinched expression toward me. “Think: deportation with little hope of playing hockey again anywhere. No team would touch you.” 

Malik turns to Grant. “It’s not fraud if Eli and his girlfriend decide to rush things along for practical reasons. I’ve heard of plenty of people getting married on the DL for a variety of reasons. They could do it now legally, at the courthouse, then have a big wedding and celebration later. I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s not like Eli’s trying to pay someone to marry him.” 

“Which would absolutely be fraud.” Grant gives us both one last look of warning, his personal version of a fraud deterrent, then slams the car door. I can see him muttering to himself as he walks away. 

Malik studies me. “So, are you thinking about it?”

I frown. “About going back to Canada?”

“About asking your girl to marry you sooner than later.”

“Not going to happen,” I say instead of telling Malik the truth—that there’s no her to ask.

“Are you against marriage?”

I blink at him. “No. I want to get married.” 

To someone I love. Not so I can stay in the states. Like Grant said: it’s fraud. 

Even my nonexistent girlfriend agrees: Real men don’t commit fraud. 

Malik nods. “And she doesn’t? Or …?”  

Or … she doesn’t exist. 

“Worst case scenario, I’ll just go back to Canada until we get it straightened out. If it takes six months, that puts us at the end of the season. I could be back for training and—”

“The immigration lawyer said it could be months before things get processed. A year, man.”

Am I sinking? It feels like Malik’s leather seats are suddenly sucking me down into them. I definitely didn’t hear Mr. Pebbles say anything about a full year. It must have been one of the many times when I zoned out. 

“I can’t promise Larry would hold your spot.” 

I sink just a little bit farther. If I had to describe the Appies’ team owner in one word, it’d be hungry. While hunger is what drives me to be the best at my position, Larry’s hunger is the ugly kind. The greedy kind. The kind wanting to feast on more money, fame, recognition—as much as he can get and in any way he can get it.

Larry is the single person I don’t like inside the Appies organization. It sucks that he happens to be the owner. 

I swallow past a growing lump in my throat. Feels like a boulder. 

“I’m sorry, man,” Malik says. “I’m sure it will be fine. Just … talk to your girl. We all do things and make sacrifices for the people we love. Maybe she’ll surprise you.”

Somehow, I don’t think she will. 

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