Page 3 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show

“I’ll need to meet with him,” I say. “He might not be right for us. And maybe his management will complain.”

“Make it work, Sebastian. That’s the job. Lots of people are jealous you have it.” Clark shoots me a hearty smile, but his words land like darts.

“Get me on the next plane to Boston,” I tell Ella.

Ella’s face brightens.

“Contact Luke and tell him he’s been selected.”

Smiles bounce around the room, but a chill slinks up my spine, just like the one I’ll feel when I return to Massachusetts.

In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll be back in Massachusetts, face to face with Luke Hawthorne.

Face to face with my bully’s younger brother.

God, they even look the same.

CHAPTER TWO

Luke

“Time to find some chicks!” Dmitri announces as we leave the ice, and my stomach drops.

“Chicks? What English textbooks did you have in Russia?” Troy asks.

Dmitri shoves Troy against the tunnel wall, and I avoid their laughing, writhing, muscular bodies as I clomp toward the locker room. Skates make everything unsteady when walking on solid ground, but my heart is light. The audience still cheers as we exit the ice after our win.

Obviously, another win is amazing. Though we were playing Carolina. We always knew we were going to win. The other team knew too, which made it easier. Mindset is huge, and tonight we had it, and they didn’t.

But there’s another reason I’m excited.

Tonight, the new Mr. Right will be announced. They’re filming this season in Boston. Their previous Mr. Right, some fancy doctor, backed out at the last moment, since he was sufficiently eligible that he found true love in advance of the show.

We tear off our jerseys and pads and leggings and fling them into the laundry baskets that appear after every game, then storm into the showers. Water squishes beneath our feet, and the guys plan their evenings, high off our wins and the two-points we’ve just added. Once we’re vaguely presentable—the suits we need to wear help, Troy and I go with Dmitri to answer interview questions. It’s not my favorite portion of the job, but I had two assists tonight and I have an A on my jersey, so I can’t hide in the swanky, super-modern locker room with its golden light and soft benches and wood-paneled walls, like I used to. Journalists seem to be satisfied when I speak about teamwork and focus. Public speaking was a hard no for me in high school, and I don’t enjoy it more when I’m being filmed. Thankfully, Evan always does most of the talking, and Troy had a shutout, which interests the media more than my work as second-line center.

Troy and Dmitri drag me to their favorite sports bar, and people begin shoving drinks into our hands practically as we enter, even though we can afford the price.

Music thrums, but I can barely hear the lyrics over the people chattering around me. Puck bunnies swarm the bar, clothed in their favorite jerseys, and Troy flirts with them. I see my jersey number on loud, busty blondes and sultry brunettes. The more confident ones sashay their way through the crowd to talk to us. The less confident ones giggle in corners, some snapping strategic selfies.

It’s cool, obviously.

I won’t complain about fame.

Personally, dark sports bars with questionable music and the scent of beer and smoke isn’t my thing. Maybe when I was twenty-one and twenty-two and this world was new and exciting. Less so now.

I like exercise and movement. Jogging on the Charles is cool. And when I want to relax and wait for the pain of sore muscles and bruises and old injuries to subside, I prefer my couch. Ideally, watching one of my favorite shows.

“Great assists.” A redhead slides up to me, and her floral scent fills my nostrils. I guess it’s an improvement on the scent of beer.

She bats her lashes, so dark and long she must be using extensions. Thick eyeliner smudges her lids, and I want to ask her if she ever gets it in her eyes.

“Thanks.” I smile at her.

I don’t have the game the other guys do, but it never much matters. The bar is too noisy for actual conversation anyway.

The woman launches into a speech on the highlights of my career, and I make appropriate sounds of being impressed at her sports knowledge.

Troy and Dmitri wink, then wander farther away, as if I’m supposed to be happy talking to a stranger. She’s hot. That’s easy to tell. Her face is appropriately symmetrical, her bosom is appropriately curved, and her waist is appropriately narrow.