Page 16 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

SIXTEEN

I’m starting to understand Logan’s complaints about helicopter dates. Is this karma for suggesting he ask Hannah—who’s terrified of heights—to be his girlfriend in a setup not unlike the one I find myself in now?

Emma seems perfectly calm. Me? Silently losing it.

I spend half the year flying on the team jet, and I’ve taken my fair share of vacations, so it’s not planes.

Or heights. It’s this tiny death trap. There’s no way something this small and flimsy should be carrying me, my date, a cameraman, and the pilot.

And don’t get me started on the propellers. I swear I could snap one in half.

I run my hands down my thighs, but when that stops working, I grip them, hoping to squeeze out some of the tension in my muscles.

“You okay?” Emma asks, her voice soft and steady, even through the headset.

I nod, mostly because I’m glad she’s here with me. We haven’t had much one-on-one time, but I feel drawn to her. She’s got this easygoing energy, and a smile that I can’t get enough of. We’ve got things in common, and her quiet calm balances out my tendency to run my mouth.

Her blonde hair cascades in soft waves around her pretty face as she looks at me with concern.

If Mia were here, I probably wouldn’t be thinking about plummeting to my death. I’d be too busy trading barbs with her to notice.

“We’ll be landing shortly, folks,” the pilot announces over the radio.

Oh, thank God.

Emma squeezes my hand, still clutching my thigh, and I loosen my grip in favor of intertwining my fingers with hers. She smiles shyly, and I do my best to return the gesture while taking deep breaths as the helicopter lowers to the ground.

Which, by the way, whose idea was it to land on a literal cliff’s edge? One wrong move and we’re crashing straight into the Pacific Ocean.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Logan had a hand in planning this as some kind of sick payback.

My feet hit the rocky ground the second the doors of the death trap open. By sheer willpower alone, I help Emma out instead of running as far from that sad excuse for an aircraft as possible.

Bodhi is waiting for us, clipboard in one hand, the other keeping a floppy bucket hat from flying off in the wind stirred up by the propellers. “How’d you enjoy the ride over?”

“It was beautiful,” Emma replies, at the same time I mutter, “It was terrible.”

They both laugh.

“This way.” Bodhi walks off without checking if we’re behind him.

We’re brought to an intimate round table. Candles are scattered across the surface, and the sun is setting over the water, painting the sky in shades of rusty pink and hazy blue. It’s picture—or rather, camera—perfect.

“You couldn’t wait for us to get here before serving the food?” I gesture toward the table, where a filet mignon and a fish dish are already plated, and probably ice cold.

Bodhi follows my gaze. “Oh, that’s not for eating. It’s just a prop. You won’t actually be dining. It’s distracting, and it’s a nightmare for the audio engineers.”

My brows pull together. It would’ve been nice if someone had given me a heads-up. I’m starving. “Seems wasteful,” I mutter.

Emma gives me another small smile before taking the seat Bodhi points toward, and I drop into the one across from her. He disappears behind one of the larger cameras, but I hear his voice call out: “All right. Good to go.”

“I’m glad we’re getting to spend this time together,” I say, meaning it.

“Me, too. I couldn’t believe my luck getting one of the first one-on-one dates.

You know I didn’t even sign up for the show myself?

” She laughs softly, shaking her head. “It was actually my mom. I was totally against it at first, but when I found out you were going to be the bachelor, it didn’t seem so bad. ”

“What was it about me?” I ask, not because I need the flattery, but because I’m curious. Emma’s never struck me as someone with an angle.

She takes a sip of her water, buying herself a second. “You’re going to think I’m so weird.”

“Have you met me? I’m pretty strange.”

She smiles. “I’ve gotten into hockey over the last couple of years. I wasn’t going to tell you, but… I’m actually a Dallas fan?—”

I slump back into my chair. “That hurts.”

She groans and buries her face in her hands. “I know, I know. I was a big Jace Knolls fan. But when he got traded, I started watching the Saints.”

“And somehow that made it worse.”

“I’ve since caught on to the bad blood.” She giggles.

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” I lean forward, watching her.

“Guess investigative journalism isn’t in my future.”

She’s cute when she’s like this. Playful, unguarded.

“Anyway, after following the Saints, I started catching your post-game interviews. They were always my favorite. Even after brutal losses?—”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“—you still had this joy about you. This lightness. It made me smile. People always talk about how flirty you are with the interviewers, but I just saw someone who made others feel at ease. Man, woman, older, younger… you’ve got this energy about you.

As an introvert, that really stood out. So, when I got offered a spot on the show, I figured, why not take the leap? ”

I sense the same quiet hope in her that I have myself—the kind of hope that makes you willing to put everything on the line.

I nod, not sure what to say at first. “I appreciate you sharing that. I’m glad you gave this a shot. I know it’s not exactly a normal dating experience.”

“So far, it’s not bad. The girls are all really great.” She picks up her fork and pushes food around her plate. I’m hungry enough that I almost steal a bite.

“Oh yeah?” I ask, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are bluish green—a shade deeper and a hint more green than Mia’s.

I clear my throat. “What’s the vibe like in the house?”

I’m not disappointed when she tells me about River’s headache tinctures, Summer’s acoustic version of Skinny Love that had half the room in tears, or how Victoria is more layered than she lets on.

She doesn’t mention the one person I’m curious about. Only because I’m supposed to be looking out for her. She seemed different today. Less fiery.

And I’m not sure what to make of it.

Have we reached some kind of truce? Have I finally cracked through her armadillo-level shell?

Emma and I fall into an easy conversation.

She tells me how she was born in Texas but raised in Connecticut, that her mom’s a writer and her biggest inspiration.

She became a literary agent because she loved stories but had a head for business.

She’s read a bunch of the same books I have, which surprises me.

I’m not exactly known for my refined literary taste.

I invite her to join my book club with Hannah, and she seems into it. Says she’s excited to meet everyone when we head to Chicago in a few weeks.

She’s thoughtful. Genuine. Kind.

Everything about this should be clicking into place.

And it is. It feels right— ish .

Yet, I catch myself wondering if something is missing.

Are my expectations too high? Am I expecting the magic and fireworks you get in a rom-com novel or movie?

Maybe real love is quieter. I should’ve asked Logan about this.

I wish I had my teammates around… they’d definitely give me shit, but they’d also help me figure it all out.

I brush the thought aside. This is good. She’s good.

Time passes quickly, like catching up with an old friend and realizing there’s no end to the backlog of stories. No awkward silences. No forced topics. It just flows.

There’s also no giving me shit. And that’s good, right?

“Want to watch the rest of the sunset over there?” She nods toward a cluster of rocks shaped like a bench facing the ocean.

“Yeah, let’s do that.” I offer her my hand, and when she takes it, I keep it in mine. Once we’re seated, I try to let go, but she squeezes back, keeping us connected.

This is nice.

It is.

My other hand starts to feel clammy, so I wipe it on my pants. Hopefully, the one she’s holding isn’t the same. If it is, she doesn’t seem to mind.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, her gaze fixed on the sky, midnight blue now, with just a sliver of golden light clinging to the horizon.

“Can I kiss you?” I ask before I can talk myself out of it. Almost immediately, I second-guess the words.

I want to kiss her. I do.

Or… I should want to .

It seems like the right move. It is?—

“So, I want to, but—” Her cheeks flush. She glances at her lap, then lifts her eyes to mine again, hesitantly.

“No explanation needed. No is a full sentence,” I say in a rush.

When a strange wave of relief washes over me… it worries me.

“I want to,” she repeats. “It’s just… I feel weird doing that knowing my family’s going to be watching.” She shoots a glance toward the cameras.

“Of course. I get that. No pressure.” I smile, trying to put her at ease.

The pressure releases in my chest, and it’s like a valve opening.

It’s okay to be cautious. To take this slow.

I’m not here to repeat old patterns. I want something new. Real.

That’s all it is.

Yeah. That’s it.

By the time we get back to the mansion to drop her off, it’s well past midnight, and the house is still and quiet.

We say goodnight in the foyer, and she leaves me with a kiss on the cheek.

My stomach growls loud enough to remind me it’s been way too many hours since I last ate. I’m not sure I’ll survive the two-minute drive to my villa without something in my system.

“I’m just gonna grab a granola bar or something from the kitchen,” I tell the cameraman. “I’ll be right out, man.”

He nods and slips out the front door, closing it softly behind him so he doesn’t wake the house full of sleeping women.