Page 1 of The Labor Date
1
SCOTT SANDERSON
I sprawlacross my leather couch, a bottle of beer sweating in one hand, remote in the other. Nothing on TV. Nothing on my calendar. It’s hell waiting for our first preseason games to begin, and I’ve already killed myself in practice and conditioning today.
Boredom is dangerous for me. It makes me want to text women I shouldn’t, like the whole puck bunny crew that follows our team around. Or worse, let buddies on the team drag me out to get drunk somewhere I’ll regret, spending too much money partying, starting fights, and ending up with my face in the Vancouver Times social pages for dumb reasons.
I get enough flack about my off-ice shenanigans from the publicity department of the Vancouver Ice; I don’t need more headaches.
This is supposed to be my year, the one I prepared myself for all summer—mentally and physically. My year to make a pro team. I know it. But with that, comes proving I’ve matured, at least according to my coach.
So instead, I thumb open a dating app, hoping to find a sweet honey to hang out with for the night. The usual app offers nothing new. Swipe, swipe, swipe. Nothing clicks. Too manyphotos of women with filters, too many women I could have casual, meaningless sex with, all easy prey.
Boring.
I need a spark, a new challenge.
On impulse, I tap another dating app I haven’t touched in months—Holidates. The simple app for people seeking dates for holidays and special events. But who knows? A date like that could turn into more.
Maybe a little gimmicky. Cute. Seasonal. A Christmas download I never used again after I needed a date to a family holiday wedding. That one proved a disaster.
The date was fine, but nothing special. I’ll admit to a healthy ego, but off the ice, with women, I’m very much the female-pleasing type of man. But the wedding with an open bar only led to the Sanderson brothers getting drunk. We’re a bunch of egotistical idiots, and as usual, after ribbing each other too much, we ended in brotherly fistfights on the lawn of the reception center.
Anyway, it’s September first. Labor Day is the only thing this month has going for it, and let’s be honest—Labor Day doesn’t exactly scream romantic holidate.
Still, I scroll for something to do. Several minutes in, I stop. I enlarge the photo on a profile.
A blonde in a champagne dress, laughing at something off-camera, takes my breath away. Not posed, not fake. Real, as far as I know. Never can tell these days, a little voice inside my head says and reminds me to be cautious.
She’s fucking gorgeous, and hard to resist. The kind of smile I suddenly want to spend all night chasing.
Her name is Holly, 28, from Los Angeles.
Her profile’s not like the others. No clichés. Just:
In Vancouver soon. I need a date for an animal rights charity event. Must wear a tux. I’ll provide if you don’t ownone. Must know how to smile at donors, fake a laugh at the right moments, and keep me from drinking too much champagne. Bonus points if you like cats.
Cats?
I’m a dog guy through and through. But I grew up with both, and hell, for one night I can be a cat lover. Especially if it means being at her side.
I hover, thumb frozen. Then—swipe and send her a message.
Me: Still need a tuxed-up gentleman to keep you from drowning in champagne?
Her reply is instant.
Holly: Do you know how to tie a bow tie?
Me: I’m a hockey player. I can lace skates in thirty seconds flat. Bow ties can’t be that hard.
Holly: (laugh emoji) Promising. Although I’ve never dated a sportsman.
Me: Then you’re in for a real treat.
Holly: Are you famous?
Me: In certain circles. I’m the hottest player on our team, if that counts. Do you follow hockey?
