Page 4 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

FOUR

The bristles tickle my nose, making me want to sneeze.

“Is this really necessary?”

“Believe me,” Margie, the makeup artist, says, “no one looks good with a shiny face.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I assume the arena lights are more forgiving?” I wink.

“I’m just glad I have such a pretty canvas to work with.” She runs her knuckles down my cheek, then gives it a pinch. “When they told me our next bachelor was a hockey player, I thought I’d have my work cut out. But just look at you.”

Her eyes hold a humorous glint. I only met her an hour ago when she was tasked with getting me camera-ready.

Apparently, that involves a lot of fussing over my face.

Margie reminds me of my aunt: probably in her late fifties and dressed like she belongs in an ‘80s hair band, with cheetah-print pants, a Def Leppard concert tee, and fire-engine-red hair.

She clearly subscribes to the higher the hair, the closer to God philosophy.

I can already tell I’m going to like her.

But this whole television-star thing is not at all what I expected. For one, I never imagined I’d have someone powdering my nose. The closest I’ve come is our team’s trainers patching cuts with butterfly bandages mid-game.

The guys would have a field day if they saw me now. Thankfully, my Saints teammates aren’t around to give me shit, though their company might distract me from the anxiety of dating on national television.

Of dating in general.

My friends were a nice buffer during the first day of filming, but today is when the real fun begins. I’m about to meet the women. All twenty-four of them.

While I’ve never exactly been a one-woman man, dating multiple women simultaneously wasn’t ever on my wish list. Hell, until last season, I wasn’t looking to date at all, let alone settle down. I wonder—not for the first time—if love is contagious, and I’ve caught the monogamous bug.

Ever since I moved next door to my best friend and his girlfriend, one-night stands have lost their appeal.

So instead of my usual off-season routine—spending my days on a beach with a woman rubbing sunscreen onto my back and my nights with her rubbing…

other places—this summer, I’m looking for the one .

I flinch as a smaller brush loaded with cold goop runs under my eyes. “And what’s that?”

“Concealer. Don’t want your dark circles showing.” She rummages through her cart until she finds a tiny tube and presses it into my palm. “Here. This’ll help. You can’t turn back the clock, only slow the ticking.”

I flip the container over. Anti-aging cream.

“Hey! I’m only thirty-one.” I shift to catch my reflection in the mirror behind her. Although I guess she has a point, my face does look brighter, not a speck of oil in sight.

She steps back in front of me, wielding a tiny comb to smooth the hair above my lip. “You’re sure there’s no convincing you to let me chop this thing off?”

I jerk away with a gasp, my hand flying up to protect my most prized facial possession. “Absolutely not!”

She throws her head back, laughter shaking her entire body. The sound abruptly cuts off when the trailer door slams.

“Dominic! How’re you doing, my dude?” Bodhi greets with a wide smile that matches his “everything is groovy” vibe. His shoulder-length, messy blond hair is thrown up into a bun—a style King often rocks, but on Bodhi, it looks stupid.

Okay, I might be holding a slight grudge based on his interaction with Mia in Logan’s yard. Hard to believe that was only a couple of days ago. It’s been a whirlwind since I stepped off the plane.

He steps into my line of sight. “You ready to meet the women?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

And that’s the truth.

I’m having a hard time connecting with the version of myself who agreed to do this. I’ve done my best to hype myself up, but I’d be lying if I said there weren’t still some lingering seeds of doubt.

“Don’t worry, you’ll find your girl. I already have my favorite.” Bodhi winks as he shuffles papers on a clipboard.

I raise a brow, but before I can question him, Margie chimes in, “Don’t you always?”

Okay, now I’m really lost. “Huh?”

“Don’t worry, my dude, I’d never step on your toes. But you can’t like them all, right?” He lifts his fist, expecting me to bump it.

Is he saying he picks up women on the show? What is he, a vulture?

Suddenly, I like him even less, and I didn’t think that was possible.

Thank fuck Mia isn’t here. Still, I’m irritated on her behalf.

The guy made plans with her days ago—plans Logan was surprisingly unconcerned about, by the way—and now he’s talking about finding a girl on the show?

Not that they could realistically date with him here in California and her in Chicago.

Though people do the long-distance thing all the time, don’t they?

Jesus, why the fuck am I even thinking about this still?

I shake my head and mutter, “I suppose not.”

“Okay, let’s get you out there. You look great.”

As I heft myself out of the tiny salon chair, he grabs the paper tucked into my collar, ensuring my shirt stays makeup-free.

The California breeze lacks the thick weight that clings to Chicago summers. We pass more crew members than I can count. I have no clue what half of them even do.

“So, I’m going to bring you to your mark—” Bodhi begins.

“My what?”

“The tape, where you’ll stand so they can get the shot.”

Is it just me, or does filming a television show sound suspiciously similar to planning an assassination?

I’m hoping it’s not a bad omen. Maybe it’s just proof I’ve read one too many mafia romances.

I’ll have to text Hannah and let her know we’ve got to ease up on the dark romance books in our two-person book club.

I nod along as Bodhi continues with his instructions. From what I gather, my job is simple: stand on a piece of tape and greet the women as they enter the mansion.

Easy enough.

The first round goes by without incident. There are plenty of polite “you look nice,” cheesy pickup lines—for once, not coming from me—and beautiful women whose names I already can’t remember.

Round two gets a bit more… memorable. One woman steps out wearing a full hockey uniform, helmet included, claiming she’s ready to “score” my heart.

Victoria, who I can already tell will be trouble, leans in and whispers that she’s “heard hockey players know exactly how to handle their sticks,” punctuating it with a sly grin that leaves little to the imagination.

There’s definitely no shortage of hockey puns.

I can only hope this isn’t a sign that the experience will end the same way my attempts at online dating did, with women only interested in my status, and me going home alone.

Others take a humorous but less hockey-focused approach. Summer, a country singer from Nashville, serenades me, guitar and all. Another, dressed as a Toy Story character, vows a love that’ll take us “to infinity and beyond.”

Then there’s Emma, a literary agent, who steps forward with a nervous laugh and a stack of books clutched to her chest. She’s pretty, with blonde hair a bit past her shoulders and emerald-green eyes.

Right away, she puts me at ease, and I get the feeling we’ll end up friends, no matter how things turn out romantically.

I’ve met twenty-three women, and there’s one left as the car pulls into the circular drive and comes to a stop.

Just as I start to feel like I’m on solid footing, a woman steps out of the limo. She turns away before I can catch a glimpse of her face, leaning over the seat for something and leaving me with only the curve of her exposed back.

Long, dark chocolate hair spills down her shoulders, brushing just above the open back of a fitted black gown. The dress clings to her petite frame, dipping low enough to tease those irresistible dimples right above her ass.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous. I think my heart actually skips a beat. Calm down.

And then she turns.

Whatever she’s holding, I don’t register it. My gaze locks on a pair of familiar light blue eyes, sparkling with amusement. My chest tightens, heart pounding.

It takes a beat for my brain to catch up with my body. At first, I don’t recognize her—probably because I’ve never seen her this dressed up. Or maybe it’s because she’s the last person I ever expected to step out of that limo.

It’s her .

My teammate’s sister.

The little she-devil.

Mia.