Page 20 of Say Yes to the Nemesis

Rich tilts his head. “And your parents?”

“My parents aren’t really in my life,” I say flatly. “That’s not something I want to get into.”

“Well, who raised you, then?”

“My Aunt Diane did a lot of the heavy lifting. We’re lucky we had her.” I glance toward the camera. “And he’s not technically family, but I owe a lot of my hockey skills, and honestly, my temper control, to Coach T. He’s been with me since I was a kid. Still comes to almost all of my games.”

“No mom and dad, though, huh?” Rich asks.

I feel my expression pinch.

“I think I turned out okay. What do you think?”

I turn away from the camera and skate hard toward the goal, firing a shot that bounces off the post and into the net.

“Well…” Rich starts, but a low buzzing sound cuts him off.

He pulls a walkie-talkie from his back pocket, speaks into it, and then nods.

“Okay. We’re going to start bringing the girls in now.”

“What, here?” I ask, gesturing to the ice. “You got a bunch of girls who can skate or something?”

Living in Atlanta, I know most of these women probably didn’t grow up ice skating. Roller skating, maybe. But ice? That’s niche.

As I finish speaking, several crew members rush out carrying a wide strip of carpet. They roll it across the ice from one opening to the other.

I arch a brow. “I guess not.”

Rich carefully makes his way over to me, hand out for my stick. I pass it to him.

“A lot of the girls can’t skate, so we’re making do,” he says. “We’re only shooting down here for about twenty minutes, justlong enough to get all the girls out on the ice, on the carpet, and introduce them. You’ll hang out at one end and greet each of them individually.”

I squint. “How many are we talking?”

“Twelve to start,” he says.

Thirteen women are about to step into this rink and pretend they’re here for love. One of them isn’t pretending. One of them already knows me too well. And she might be the biggest threat in the room.

He points to the far end of the carpet. “If you can hang out over there, that would be immensely helpful.”

I’m standing at center ice in a tailored suit and skates because, apparently, that’s part of the bit. The whole “I’m a famous hockey player” thing that the producers feel will make me bachelor material. Rich insisted it would look great on camera. One by one, the bachelorettes step onto the carpet with practiced smiles and camera-ready waves, each introduction more surreal than the last.

Annabeth is first. She’s a pediatric nurse with ice-blonde hair and a voice like spun sugar. She flashes a megawatt smile, says she’s “ready to give her heart a checkup,” and hugs me like we’ve known each other for years. JacqLyn follows, a pageant coach in towering stilettos and a rhinestone-studded dress. She says something flirty about “competing for the biggest prize of all.” I honestly can’t tell if she means love or the spin-off brand deals.

Nikki makes her entrance in knee-high boots and a dress I’m pretty sure breaks a few broadcast codes. She’s a social media strategist, all confidence and red lipstick, and her handshake feels like a dare. Brooke is a flight attendant who winks as she adjusts her silk scarf and says something about “first-class chemistry.” Heidi, a sleek corporate lawyer with a smirk that says she’s already judging me, just nods once and moves along.

Letitia works in luxury real estate and struts like she’s selling the rink itself. Divya is an ER resident who looks like she hasn’t slept in three days but still manages to radiate poise. Trinity, a yoga instructor and part-time astrologer, greets me with a deep breath and a promise that “our signs are aligned.” Whitney, an event planner, gives me a clipboard once she’s done introducing herself, as if I’m already on her to-do list.

Mei is a social media influencer like Jay; she snaps several selfies and tells her fans how amazing this experience is. I’m not really needed or wanted in that interaction. Daisy, a kindergarten teacher, is sweet enough to give me a toothache and clutches a handmade card with glitter on it. And finally, there’s Raven, last on the lineup, a bartender with a tattoo sleeve and the kind of stare that makes you forget your own name. “I can’t believe I’m talking to the Ryan Haart.” She smirks and says, “Bet I’m not what you were expecting.” She’s not wrong.

There it is again. The full name. The image. Ryan the brand, not the man. I’ve had women fall for that version of me before. And every time, they look disappointed when the real me shows up.

When Rich tells me to wrap it up, I look around and whisper, “Isn’t someone missing?”

“You’ll meet the surprise contestant upstairs in the lounge,” he says. “Now, I need you to announce to everyone that we are going to move upstairs to the high rollers’ box. Make the announcement dramatic!”

“Welcome, everyone,” I call out. “I can’t wait to meet y’all. If you will follow me up to the owner’s box, we can have a drink and talk a bit.”