Page 6 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

SIX

“Mia,” I say again, introducing myself for what feels like the hundredth time.

I should’ve considered how overwhelming it would be to meet twenty-three girls, and just as many crew members. But I didn’t.

I did, however, anticipate— revel in , really—Dominic’s dropped jaw when I showed up.

It’s not every day someone offers you an all-expenses-paid vacation. Okay, maybe not quite a vacation, considering it includes twenty-four-seven filming for a reality TV show… but still, a free trip, nonetheless.

I knew it was too good to be true.

Which was confirmed when Dominic hijacked—completely on brand—Ryan and Hannah’s housewarming party to announce his summer plans.

The producers are clever, I’ll give them that. There’s no way they didn’t set this up. On the application I filled out months ago, when the bachelor was just some faceless, nameless idea, I wrote Dominic’s name on the line for someone who’s not my type.

Besides being my stepbrother’s—well, brother as far as we’re concerned—best friend, he’s also the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. But apparently, I’m the only one who sees that.

What better way to create some top-notch television than by forcing us to get along… let alone fall in love? They’re going to be sorely disappointed.

Since backing out wasn’t an option, throwing a wrench in his perfectly laid plans has been the silver lining of what I knew would turn out to be a disaster.

It might even be worth the anxiety currently buzzing in my gut.

By the time I plop down on the couch to greet the final group, I’m sick of my own name.

“Summer.” The woman seated to my right rounds out the intros.

“Beautiful dress,” she offers with a warm smile. “I got stuck playing into the cowgirl shtick.”

It’s only then that I really take in her outfit.

Long auburn hair spills out from beneath a cowboy hat, bedazzled with Dominic’s name across the front.

A gingham button-down is tied beneath her chest, revealing her midriff.

Short jean shorts and white cowboy boots complete the look.

I’d like to say it’s the most unique “costume” I’ve seen so far, but another woman is literally Buzz Lightyear.

My windbreaker pickup line is starting to feel a lot less embarrassing.

“Are you?” I ask.

“Huh?” She blinks at me.

“A cowgirl.”

“Oh, no. I’m a country singer,” she explains, lowering her voice. “My agent thought this would be good exposure.”

I nod, and she follows up with, “What about you?”

How do I explain that I don’t have a real job? That I’m still figuring it all out? I probably should’ve anticipated this question. I bet my subtitle will read Twenty-Two, Unemployed Loser . Or maybe something more optimistic, like Hopeful Wanderer .

“I’m between jobs,” I reply, which sounds as good as anything else.

“Why’re you here?”

I lean in because apparently, we’re not supposed to tell the truth. “An escape?” I whisper. It comes out sounding more like a question, but that’s exactly what this is for me.

She squeezes my hand gently, and I decide right then that I’m going to like her.

The hum of chatter dies as everyone’s attention shifts behind me. I glance over my shoulder, spotting Dominic as he steps into the room. I twist to follow him with my gaze before settling back in my seat.

He stands at the front of the room, all eyes locked on him, in his perfectly tailored suit and slicked-back hair. The scruff on his jaw is trimmed down to a faint five-o’clock shadow. It seems production couldn’t convince him to get rid of the mustache. His lips twitch with a hint of a smile.

I’m certain the whole room is swooning, but I’m fighting the urge to roll my eyes.

“Hi,” he starts, clearing his throat. “Good evening, ladies…”

Cue the dramatic speech. I can’t hold back that eye roll any longer.

“Tonight marks the beginning of our journey to find love…”

Oh boy. Here we go.

“You’ve all come here for the same reason as me. To open your hearts, take a risk, and hopefully walk away with something real. Over the coming weeks, we’ll face challenges, surprises, and maybe even a little drama?—”

He winks. He freakin’ winks .

I shift my eyes around the room, careful not to move my head, until I spot the cue cards he’s reading from.

“—but through it all, the goal remains the same: to build a real connection that lasts far beyond the final episode.”

Ha . Doesn’t he know none of this is real?

Of course he doesn’t. And watch—because everything always works out for Dominic Fox—he’ll somehow walk away with the one . Because he’s… him. And he always gets what he wants. With that wide smile, too-white teeth, and those stupid dimples.

“I hope you’re ready, because I know I am,” he finishes.

I celebrate the end of his speech by downing the rest of my champagne.

He flashes that blinding smile and raises his glass of what I’d bet anything is Perrier. The guy doesn’t even need booze to be that happy.

Must be nice.

I stand with the rest of the women, lifting my empty glass and pasting on a fake smile of my own. If I want to stay, I’ll have to at least pretend to play along.

Before our glasses even separate, Victoria—do not call her Vicky, already made that mistake—sidles up to his side. “Can I steal you?”

And so it begins.

Dominic smiles at her, this time without teeth, his gaze dipping to her exposed cleavage just quick enough to miss the cameras. Because of course. Victoria looks exactly like the kind of woman he spent all summer chasing. The type he’s always photographed with. And there’ve been plenty.

I wasn’t exaggerating with the roster comment. I almost feel sorry for the girls here who are bound to fall for his charm.

“Sure, let’s go.” He offers her his elbow and leads her out of the room.

With Dominic gone, the girls scatter, already breaking into cliques. I scan the room, searching for the cowgirl, Summer. Maybe she can help me figure out what’s up with Buzz Lightyear.

Who knows how long I’ll stick around. The least I can do is entertain myself while I’m here.

After grabbing another glass of champagne from the cocktail table, I head out to the back patio.

I find Summer chatting with a woman in a flowy gown patterned more like tapestry than evening wear.

She pulls it off, with gorgeous brown curls and deep blue eyes—not unlike Dominic’s.

Summer introduces her as River, a name that fits her effortlessly cool, boho vibe.

We’re bonding over the weirdest entrances when a light touch on my shoulder makes me stiffen.

“Can I grab you for a second?” Dominic interrupts.

I’m surprised he’s back so soon. They couldn’t have been talking longer than fifteen minutes.

I reluctantly agree, knowing I can’t ignore him forever, and follow him through the backyard to a gazebo.

The cameras trail us, Bodhi not far behind.

I offer him a small wave—they can always cut it in editing—and sit on the couch.

Dominic follows my gaze. “Hey, can we get a minute?”

Bodhi steps forward. “You know we can’t do that.”

“I don’t think this conversation is going to fit the narrative,” Dominic mutters, irritation creeping into his voice.

“No can do, my dude.” Bodhi shrugs.

Dominic lets out a huff, sinking into the cushions beside me. “Fine. Whatever.” He turns to me.

His proximity makes me itch.

Before this summer, under normal circumstances, I’d see him a couple of times a year, and even that was a couple of times too many.

Still, every time I’m forced to be around him, he burrows deeper under my skin.

Like a mite. Like nails on a chalkboard.

Like that incessant beeping when a fire alarm battery needs changing. Everything about him grates on me.

After a sharp exhale, his Mr. Brightside smile reappearances. The one that comes way too easily. “Hey. So, I wanted to talk about you being here…”

I shoot a glance at Bodhi, who’s stepped behind the camera, trying to gauge if this is allowed. Are we breaking from the script now? Skipping the fake getting-to-know-you questions and flirtatious touches everyone else seems so eager to perform? I take his gentle nod as confirmation.

“Get to the point. What do you want, Dom?” I don’t bother softening my tone now that we’re done with the preamble.

“Oh, you’re giving me nicknames already? We’re moving so fast. What should I call you?” He waggles his brows.

“I’d prefer you just not talk to me. Then you won’t need to call me anything.”

“Afraid you’re out of luck. We’re dating now, didn’t you know?”

I’m starting to see a pattern—when I let my bitch flag fly, he counters with over-the-top flirtation. Like he’s trying to balance some invisible scale.

“How could I forget? I’m one of twenty-four women. Are you going to ask me to be your one of eighteen tonight?”

I’m aiming to piss him off, but I’m also genuinely curious. Is he going to send me packing before I even unpack? Also, what a stupid way to ask someone to go steady. Will you be my one out of however-many-people-are-left? Thanks for the reminder; real romantic.

“Of course I am. Don’t you feel this connection, fireball?” His arm slides across the couch behind me.

My brows pinch together. “Ew. Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You’re quite the little fireball,” he says, followed by a rapid string of words I can’t understand—definitely not English.

I blink at him. I didn’t even know he spoke another language. I guess Dominic is an Italian name, but Fox? Not so much. Maybe his mom’s Italian?

“Don’t you mean spitfire? I know your vocabulary is probably limited to ‘get pucks in deep,’ celly, twig, and other stupid hockey slang, but a spitfire is someone with a sharp tongue.

And what did you call me? Have you started cursing me out in another language?

I wasn’t aware you were smart enough to speak more than one. ”

“Pretty sure spitfire is someone quick to anger… which also fits. But nah, you’re a wildfire.” His grin is maddeningly casual, and he offers no translation.

My jaw tightens. “Then you must be oxygen. Fanning the flames until they burn out of control.”

“Aww, are you saying you can’t live without me?”

“You’re impossible,” I groan.

“And you’re a fireball. That’s what I’ll call you from now on.”

“Dominic, I do not want a nickname with ball in it.”

“You’d prefer one with spit in it?” He raises a brow.

I regret every choice that brought me to this conversation. “Well, no, but”— I wave a hand, dismissing it—“Ugh. Forget it.”

“ La mia piccola fiamma , it is. My little flame.”

At least he finally translated. “I’m not your anything.”

I stand, intending to rejoin the group, but he grabs my wrist before I can make my escape.

“Wait. We didn’t talk.”

I raise a brow. “Pretty sure that’s what we just did. Granted, it was possibly the least productive conversation I’ve ever had.”

“Sit.” He keeps hold of me and gently urges me into the spot I vacated.

I sigh. “What now?”

“Do you want to stay? And no, we didn’t already cover that,” he quips, reading my mind apparently, “I told you I was keeping you. Now, I’m asking if you want to stay.”

“Oh, so I get a choice?”

“Goddamn it, woman, can you just answer the question?” he grumbles.

I shrug.

He shifts beside me. “I talked to Ryan.”

I wait, not offering anything.

“He had some theories about why you might be here… and none of them involved falling in love.”

I have no clue what Ryan said, but I’d bet whatever it was isn’t far from the truth.

Love was far from my reasons for agreeing to this ridiculous show.

And if I’d known the man across from me was the one I was supposed to fall in love with, I wouldn’t have agreed in the first place. But all I say is, “He’s a smart man.”

“All right.” Dominic’s shoulders rise with a barely-there breath. “One more thing… he asked me to watch out for you. Said you might be going through… something.”

My stomach tightens. Why the hell would Ryan tell him that? How would he even know? I’m not in the habit of dumping my problems on people. Maybe Mom mentioned it—she was the one who caught me mid-spiral last time.

It’s been hours since production took my phone, and I’m feeling the absence. If I had it, I’d text Ryan to mind his own business and stop passing my problems around. Especially to Dominic Fox.

So that’s why he’s even considering keeping me here. Figures. “What, you expecting a heart-to-heart? Want me to spill all my woes? Sorry to disappoint, but that’s not happening,” I mutter.

“Didn’t think so. But I’m here if you ever want to… or if you need something.” He pauses, studying me a little too closely. “You’re not sick, are you?”

Being sick isn’t usually how people describe mental illness. But sometimes, it feels like my brain is infected. Infected with thoughts that burrow deep and buzz beneath my skin. Like those underground bees whose hives thrum quietly, unnoticed until you step on them.

People who haven’t felt the constant hum don’t get it. People like Dominic, who are perpetually happy, can’t possibly understand anxiety and depression. The guy probably doesn’t even have bad days. I bet he’s immune. His life is all sunshine and rainbows.

I want to say yes. Yes, I am sick. And I want someone to understand what that means.

But instead, I say, “No, I’m fine.”

Fine . God, I hate that word. Probably because it’s the one I use the most. And more often than not, it’s a lie.

The only time it feels remotely true is when I exhaust myself.

Keep moving.

Keep busy.

Always planning the next “thing.” That’s when the buzzing quiets just enough, and I can almost believe I’m okay. I can almost trick myself into thinking fine isn’t a lie at all.

Which was exactly what this was supposed to be. Is that even possible anymore? Maybe I’m better off cutting my losses.

“Can I interrupt?” a girl whose name I can’t recall asks.

“Give us—” Dominic starts at the same time I say, “Sure.”

Before I fully rise, she is already sliding into my place. It reminds me of those sushi restaurants where a conveyor belt offers never-ending options and the diner takes anything that tickles their fancy. In this case, it’s women being offered up for the taking.

Dominic leans back to let me pass. “We’re not done.”

Oh yeah, we are.