Page 4 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show

And part of me does want to invite her to my place. It might be cool. But last time I tried to get together with someone, I didn’t actually get it up. I’m not sure why a naked stranger on my bed is supposed to be appealing, but clearly my opinion puts me in the minority.

“Want another drink?” I ask.

She beams at me, as if I’ve just proposed, and my stomach hollows.

Maybe another beer will make me feel more settled, and I lead her to the bar. People smile at me, others nudge one another, excited to spot a Blizzard in the wild.

I order us both drinks, and I can already see her planning our future life together, her installed in the special WAG section, me gliding around the ice in front of the cameras.

I guess it’s not horrible. Maybe I should get a girlfriend. At least then if I go to bars on away games, I can tell everyone I’m taken.

“Can you believe that cardiologist backed out ofSeeking Mr. Right?” A woman behind me says in an exasperated alto voice. “What are they going to do?”

I turn around. Some women in their thirties are talking together.

“Right? Like that’s so uncool!” I exclaim. “It’s great he found true love on his own, but he wasn’t supposed to look for it before the show.”

The women’s mouths drop.

“You watchSeeking Mr. Right?” one of them asks me tentatively.

“I mean...sometimes,” I lie.

I watch every episode. But for some reason, Troy and the others think this is strange.

I grab my new beer from the counter, hand my new companion her drink, and turn to the other women. “Do you think they’ll change to a new city?”

“No way. There’s gotta be another eligible man who can do it,” one woman says.

“You could do it!” her friend squeals.

The redhead’s face pales, her WAG dreams drifting away. I give a quick search of the bar to see if any of the single men are currently not flirting.

Troy and Dmitri have already left. Maybe Troy wants to get to the apartment before me so he can do some of the private things I don’t need to hear him do. Like a variety of high-pitched squeals that last for almost an hour, like he and his hookup are writing an opera together.

Anyway, talking to someone aboutSeeking Mr. Rightis way cooler.

“You could so be Mr. Right!” the woman continues.

“No way. They wouldn’t want a professional athlete. They usually have doctors and things. People who not only graduated college, but also graduated from medical school or law school. People who do more than just strike pucks.”

“What are you talking about? Everyone loves professional athletes! You’re like the perfect husband.”

My companion stiffens beside me.

“Unless...” She flicks her gaze head between us. “Are you together?”

“We just met,” I say.

The redhead gives me a tight smile. No doubt she would so rather be talking about me about hockey stats, as if that’s a requirement for hanging out with me.

“And you’re single?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’ve never had a girlfriend, have you?” the redhead asks.

I stiffen.