Page 19 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
“Does she need to get back in the limo?” I ask.
“No, you’re fine,” Sebastian says, his voice calm. “From the introduction.”
Even though this filming hasn’t gone great so far, because of my ability to say the wrong thing, Sebastian’s voice is steady and reassuring. He’s seemed much more unsure when there weren’t any cameras on us, and we were alone.
Now he’s in his element, and I wish I could just watch him, and I didn’t need to make conversation with this stranger. I wish I didn’t need to pretend to feel chemistry with Dahlia so viewers at home will excitedly discuss our potential as lifetime partners and whether in a few years we’ll have children running around who share both of our facial features, her nose, my eyes, my chin, her cheeks.
My chest feels hollow, as it always does when I imagine a life post-hockey, or even when I imagine returning from away games to some suburban dream house with a beautiful woman to slink her floral-scented arms around me and press her glossy lips against my own.
I’m glad Troy lives with me now, and since he hasn’t had a steady girlfriend in a while, I’m confident our life won’t have to change. Some guys wonder why we don’t have our own apartment, since money is no issue, even in high-priced Boston, but I like the company.
Sebastian clears his throat, and I realize my thoughts have wandered, as if something will occur to me that will make my whole life make sense. The only thing that’s ever made sense to me is each individual hockey game. I know what I’m supposed to do to succeed in them, and I can spend my time perfecting my body and my skills, so it’s easier and easier to chase after the puck, wrangle it from any opposing team players, and whack it into the net.
Each year I play better hockey than the year before, though I’m more and more confused by women.
“Hi, I’m Dahlia,” Dahlia says in her cheerful, southern-accented soprano voice.
“That’s a pretty name,” I say, because I think that’s something that I should say.
She beams at me, her pink-lipstick smothered lips stretching upward, and her heavily mascara-ed lashes swoop up.
My gaze flicks to Sebastian’s automatically, because I guess I want to know what he thinks, because he’s the host. His smile is bright, but his eyes don’t dance, and he reminds me of one of those brittle Nutcrackers we see in stores at this time of year.
“I’m excited to learn about hockey,” she says.
“Oh, yeah?” I do my best flirtation, lingering in her eyes, like I see Dmitri do when he visits bars, and all the women look like they’re going to follow him anywhere, to any bed, or perhaps just a conveniently placed bathroom stall, no matter how short of a time he wants them.
Dahlia’s eyes are blue, like Sebastian, though the shade is paler and less bright than Sebastian’s eyes.
“You like learning?” I ask, unsure if I’m good at flirting, but maybe the point is paying attention to the other person.
“I have a doctorate in public health,” she says.
This time I don’t mention she would have been a perfect fit for the Mr. Right chosen before.
This time I only smile. “I guess you have the brains, and I—”
“Have the brawns,” she finishes for me, her eyes sparkling, and it’s easy to imagine everyone who will watch later leaning forward, declaring us definitely on our way to being married.
Sebastian nods, his face cool and impassive as he leads her into the house. I watch him go, my heart sinking as I realize I have nine more women to pretend to fall in love with.
CHAPTER NINE
Luke
The townhouse is as elegant inside as I could have imagined. Crystal chandeliers sparkle above.
The cameras whir, following my every move.
The women chatter happily, and the servers hand me glass of wine after glass of wine, hopeful I’ll say something interesting. Warmth fills me, and some of the tension eases.
It’s still surreal I’m here. I’ve watched the opening night ofSeeking Mr. Rightso many times, and apart from my flub with Dahlia, the night has gone well.
My gaze drifts to Sebastian. He’s been chatting with Ella all night, his tall, slim figure perfectly tailored in his tux, blond hair gleaming under the chandeliers.
“I love hockey!” Gemma announces, sauntering up to me, her high heels clicking on the antique floor. “I used to play field hockey. Rhode Island State champions, baby.” She high-fives me.
“Good for you,” I say.
