Page 143 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
Luke pulls me into his arms.
“Did you convince Dmitri that you are a better match than Oskar?”
Luke shakes his head mournfully. “He was oddly firm about that point.” He strokes my cheek. “But I got what really matters.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Totally.” Then Luke pulls me into his arms, and we dance in the kitchen to Christmas music as people cheer around us.
EPILOGUE
Luke
One Year Later
The game ends with another win, and we rush into the tunnel, high off our extra two points toward the playoffs. Twenty athletic men stride toward the locker room, our steps rather less elegant than on the ice.
“Time to celebrate Christmas!” Dmitri shouts. “I’m bringing Christmas deviled eggs.”
“What the fuck is that?” Troy asks.
“Is super American. Deviled eggs, with the middle shaped into a Christmas tree and dyed green. You do not know it?”
“Maybe if I’d been around in the sixties...Where did you get that recipe?”
“Is wonderful recipe. All my recipes are wonderful,” Dmitri says, and he wrestles Troy in the tunnel. I avoid their writhing, muscular bodies, and take out my phone.
My eyes melt. Sebastian liked the game.
I mean, he always likes my playing, whether we win or not, but I still super appreciate it. My heart is light as my friends make plans to visit Sebastian and me for our first holiday dinner.
Sebastian and I bought a townhouse on Marlborough Street a few months ago, and Sebastian has been painstakingly decorating it in the appropriate nineteenth-century manner on his vlogs. He already has half a million subscribers in four months. People still love his thoughtful demeanor, even if now he’s talking about Boston architecture and not about true love. Flora and Willow and Dahlia have all made appearances on his vlogs. Flora became the firstSeeking Miss Right,and Willow has landed herself an anesthesiologist. Apparently, that’s a very difficult job, though I’ve explained to him about how I was successfully put to sleep on the ice in Montreal last year, though I don’t think he’s going to incorporate that strategy at Boston’s General Hospital.
I’ve made a few appearances too, and the one where I picked up a pair of pliers and explained that that was essentially nineteenth century dentistry got over two million views. I think it’s great that Sebastian managed to get us a house filled with dental equipment, even if Sebastian looked very worried and insisted that I have multiple dentist numbers programmed into my phone just in case I get injured and decide to take things into my own hands.
They’ve become successful, and Belinda, a former child actress turned Uber-successful talk show host, has hired him multiple times to conduct interviews. Everyone likes his thoughtful, considerate demeanor.
I walk into the night with my best friends, my teammates, and we cross the Charles together and walk the short distance to Back Bay. The snow glistens extra strong under the inky sky, lit up by the moon and smattering of stars visible even in the city.
Dmitri and Troy separate. They’re meeting their significant others and apparently Dmitri is bringing Christmas deviled eggs.
I hurry toward the townhouse, then stride up the steps of the brownstone. A few cameras are in the black-and-white marble entrance, which Sebastian is currently remodeling so it will have all its nineteenth century glory.
“Honey, I’m home!” I shout.
Sebastian flings himself into my arms, and I inhale his scent.
“Why do you always smell so sophisticated?” I ask.
He giggles in my arms, and then we’re kissing, kissing, kissing. I sweep my arms around him and lift him onto the yellow velvet tufted bench in the corner.
“This isn’t a make-out bench!” Sebastian exclaims, wriggling from my arms, but his eyes are bright, and his smile is wide and happy.
“This is perfectly suited to be a make-out bench,” I say. “So we don’t waste time going up to the bedroom when guests are arriving soon.”
“The guests!” Sebastian leaps up.
I shouldn’t have mentioned the guests.
