He flew to Minnesota today and crashed as soon as he got to camp, so we didn’t have a chance to talk.
“So, Luke,” Dad says, handing me a beer and leaning against the kitchen counter. “How are things with Erik?”
Damnit.
“Uh, we’re fine,” I reply, lying through my teeth.
“You’ve always been a shitty liar. What’s going on?”
“Who says I’m a bad liar?”
“Says everyone. That’s how you got caught those two times you tried drinking in high school.”
Onlytwotimes? Yeah, no. I’m a better liar than you give me credit for.
He continues. “Anyway, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing and everything,” I groan. “My company won’t let me move to Sweden on a one-year visa, even though Erik sayshe’ll help me stay permanently after I arrive, and I can’t find a job that’ll sponsor me.”
“Maybe Toronto will want him back?”
I scoff. “At the NHL level? Nah. I’d love that, but Toronto needs to scout some scouts first.”
“Come again?”
“They haven’t managed to poach anyone from another professional league in three years,” I deadpan.
Dad nods. “That’s fair. So if he can’t move here, then what?”
“Then I’ll go to Sweden with no plan and no job.” I don’t give Dad a chance to tell me that I’m out of my mind. “That’s a terrible idea—I know, and Erik says so as well, but I’m so frustrated. I feel like I’m stagnating here.”
“Stagnating? How so?”
“Every day feels the exact same, and I have no consistent social life to speak of, other than when my friends visit.” I plop myself down onto a barstool. “I just want to live somewhere else.”
“You’re twenty-two, Luke. There’s no better time than now.”
“I guess so. Hell, I’d settle for anywhere in Europe at this point, and then at least I could see Erik more often.”
Dad raises his eyebrows. “Europe? Have you given any thought to France?”
“France is in Europe, so yeah, I guess I have. I don’t think they give out visas for speaking their language, though.”
There’s a brief pause as Dad purses his lips. “You know Grandma was French, right?”
“Yeah, you grew up in Montreal.”
Dad’s expression turns serious. “No. She was French. As in from France, not French-Canadian.”And?“There’s a visa that lets people with French ancestry establish permanent residence in France.”
Gears turn in my head. Permanent residence in France. France is closer to Sweden. If I can’t live in Sweden, I’ll live in France and fly to Sweden whenever I can.
It isn’t much, but it sure issomething. And I won’t have to get another job, either. As much as my company is weird as hell, I don’t want to let go of that New York salary.
I clasp my hands together. “Consider me intrigued.”
“So,” Dad says, “England has something called an Ancestry Visa, which lets the descendants of citizens get some kind of residence there.”
“And you think France has the same kind of thing?”
