Page 1 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

ONE

Statistically speaking, how many bad dates does one person have to endure before meeting the one ?

If we were talking hockey stats, I’d have a much better idea.

My average goals per season? Twenty-three over the last five years. Back in my rookie years, when I was young and cocky, I hit thirty-four.

My shot accuracy? Hovers around fifteen percent.

My plus-minus? Consistently in the top twenty-five for left-wingers league-wide.

The odds of burying a puck on a breakaway? Low.

The odds of finding a first date I actually want to take on a second? Apparently, even lower.

Case in point: my fourth failed date this week.

And that’s not counting the weeks of trying in the lead-up to this one.

I toe off my Allen Edmonds leather loafers, shutting the door behind me with an echo that reverberates through the room, and head for the fridge. It’s just as barren as this massive house.

Hiring an interior designer to do something with the space has been on my to-do list since I moved in a handful of months ago.

I’m not even sure I know what home is supposed to look like, but this definitely isn’t it.

White walls, clean lines, and modern furniture, most of it two sizes too small for my frame, or for any company I might have over.

Which, realistically, means my dad, teammates, or the occasional book club meeting…

currently made up of Hannah and—nope, that’s it. That’s the whole list.

I dig around until I find a takeout container of lo mein and sniff it, checking if it’s gone bad. It can’t be older than a couple days… a week at most.

My trainer would lose his mind if he knew I was scarfing Chinese food at midnight. I was religious about my routine for the first decade, but after thirteen years in the league, I’ve let a few things slide. Especially in the off-season.

I shovel in a bite, barely catching a runaway noodle before it stains my baby-blue button-up and ruins another of my date shirts.

They’re all some shade of blue to accentuate my eyes, according to Hannah, and form-fitting to show off the body I spend half the year working for on the ice and the whole year maintaining in the gym, according to Natalie and Ada.

Living next door to my best friend and teammate comes with perks, one of which is the fashion advice from his girl and her group of friends who have also become mine.

Maybe that’s my problem: the shirt. It might be bad luck.

I shake my head. I’m usually not this superstitious outside of the season. During the season? I’m like every other hockey player who finds something that coincides with a win and refuses to change it.

They’ve ranged from texting my dad before every game to keeping a woman’s hair tie around my wrist to wearing the same pair of socks. Don’t worry, I washed them. Can’t say the same for a few guys I’ve played with.

But there’s got to be more I’m getting wrong than the shirt.

When I decided to give love a shot, I didn’t expect it to be quite so hard to find.

Normally, no one can resist my charm. Scratch that.

There’s one woman. The same one whose hair tie gave me luck two seasons ago.

I guess we can add these failed dates to the shortlist of people immune.

I set the noodles on the coffee table, unbutton my shirt, and drape it over a chair before dropping onto the couch.

If I’m going to feel sorry for myself, I should at least do it in relative comfort…

or as much as my too-firm furniture allows.

I flip on the TV to give the room some light, not bothering to check what’s on. With a sigh, I pull out my phone.

After that disaster of a date, I figured I’d at least salvage the night by asking Logan to meet up. Still no reply.

If the shirt can’t be blamed, then it’s his fault I’m here. Everything was fine until he went and fell in love. The way he is with Hannah is equal parts sickening and inspiring. And he makes it look so damn easy.

I want that too, a love story of my own.

I close out our text thread and open the dating app I’ve been using, falling back into the routine I know all too well: swiping.

The solution to one bad date? Go looking for another.

By now, the profiles have started to blur together.

I was recommended this one, apparently designed for “high-caliber people”—celebrities, athletes, influencers. I think the connecting thread is that everyone thinks pretty highly of themselves. And I know, here I am. Stones and glass houses and all that.

I’m really not looking for a certain kind of person. I’m just looking for someone to love. Someone who might even love me back.

A sentence I never thought would ever leave my mouth, but it’s the truth.

Real love is what I’m after.

And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s what’s gone wrong with my previous dates.

Some of them were probably looking for love, too, but their version came with stipulations.

They wanted someone well known. Respected.

Someone with enough zeros in their bank account and enough weight to their name to get them onto the most exclusive lists.

No one has really given two shits about me , the guy who eats cold lo mein at midnight and has an ironically unironic love for romance novels. They’ve all wanted Dominic Fox, the Chicago Saints’ first-line winger.

And I’m not even going to be that for much longer.

My playing years are numbered. At thirty-one, I only have so many seasons left. I’m going to give it everything I’ve got until I can’t anymore, but I’m realistic; most NHL players retire in their mid-thirties.

I’m not going to be one of those assholes who destroys his body to keep reliving the glory days.

I want to settle down. Move on to the next chapter.

Whatever it holds, I know I don’t want it to include unfulfilling one-night stands, countless first dates, or coming home to an empty house every night. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.

I lift another forkful of noodles to my mouth and hit nothing but metal. Well, that went fast.

I toss the empty container and fork onto the coffee table and resume my search for Mrs. Right. Just ten more swipes. Then I’ll call it a night. A failed one.

When I’m down to only three swipes—the first seven were all left, if you’re curious—I come across a face I know well, and it catches me completely off guard.

Her blue eyes are the opposite of mine, so pale they look like sea glass.

And her waist-length, nearly black hair makes them all the more hypnotizing.

Her expression is one that’s never been aimed in my direction.

Sweet but flirty, filled with humor, like she’s keeping a secret she has no intention of sharing.

I’m sure this photo alone has every guy who sees it swiping right.

If I didn’t know her, I’d be doing the same.

I keep scrolling. One picture shot at a hockey game (predictable), one with dogs I’d bet money are from Hannah’s rescue, Highways to Homes , and the last, a selfie taken with a view I can see from my own window if I bothered to look outside.

Her profile doesn’t say much. A love of travel. The Saints—her brother’s team, and mine. Volunteering at Hannah’s rescue. Indecision about a career. Her theory on life: Stuck in a riptide? Swim sideways.

Whatever that means. Which brings me to the question: how the hell is she on here? Unless she’s using Logan’s bank account, I’m pretty sure unemployed doesn’t fit the membership criteria of this “exclusive” app.

I toss my phone onto the cushion and throw my head back with a huff. Is this a sign? If it is, I have no idea how to interpret it. I know I’m running out of options if she’s one of my potential matches.

Mia Matthews is the bane of my existence.

Okay, that might be a little dramatic. I don’t actually have a problem with her, but she seems to have one with me. And why? No fucking clue. She dislikes me, and no matter how many times I’ve tried to bury the hatchet—one I’m not even sure why she lodged in my back—she remains icy toward me.

I laugh to myself as an idea forms. I pick the phone back up, thankful the cushion didn’t make the decision for me. I swipe right, knowing full well she’ll either give me a verbal lashing or… no, that’s the only option I can see happening.

Okay, maybe she has a tiny reason to hate me. I like riling her up almost as much as she likes giving me shit.

With that done, I lock my phone, deciding I don’t need to tempt fate further with my two remaining swipes.

That’s when a jingle pulls my attention to the TV. You’re The One starts up. A re-run. I already watched last season with Logan and Hannah, who got me into the show in the first place.

They’ve been fans since college, and I gave him endless shit about it until I got sucked in, too.

Like most reality TV, it’s a little over the top and a lot ridiculous, but there’s something about this one that feels weirdly real. Like the guy actually finds his person, even with all the chaos a show like that must throw at him.

How is that possible? And yet I can’t even land a second date. Would dating twenty-four women at once improve my odds?

The show’s theme fades into the background, a not-so-subtle reminder of the email sitting in my inbox.

My head tips side to side, a motion I’ve done daily since I first opened the message a week ago.

Open it. Close it. Reread the subject line. Debate. Repeat. I don’t know why I haven’t just deleted it.

Curiosity? Loneliness? Hope?

All of the above.

I did say I was a bit desperate to find love, right?

Fuck it.