Aisha, our Associate Producer, simply looks horrified. I wasn’t aware she could look anything besides calm and collected. She’s used to me being professional. She stops typing on her laptop, peering at me over the lid through her blue-light glasses.
This is the most emotional they’ve ever seen me, and I don’t like it.
I’m not emotional. I’m professional.
But the judgment lies in their eyes already, just like their mirth.
“Look. I can see the appeal. But a hockey player? As Mr. Right? No way.”
Silence fills Conference Room #3, flooding it like a noxious gas, even though it was designed to impress. No doubt the executives were hopeful the view of the Hollywood Hills would mesmerize everyone and impel everyone to refrain from discussions.
I keep my gaze on my boss and pretend everything around me is not collapsing.
People don’t correct Clark.
Ella, Mateo, and Aisha stare at me, baffled, and Clark glowers.
“Seeking Mr. Rightis about finding the perfect husband,” I remind Clark. “Not a nice hookup.”
Clark flinches, and I regret my use of words.
“If people do that of course.” I frown at the table. “Do you think a professional athlete says perfect husband to you?”
“Lots of women would think so.”
“Professional athletes are jocks. Worse than jocks. Brutes. Andrew was a cardiologist. He helps people. Isn’t that the message we want to send to people?”
“We’ve had a lot of healthcare professionals already,” Ella says, and I try not to shoot her a betrayed glance.
This is fine. Really.
“Andrew backed out at the last moment,” Aisha reminds me.
“And we’re damned lucky this guy applied,” Clark says. “Look, you probably have never seen a hockey game before.”
I stiffen.
“I assure you though,” Clark continues, “Luke Hawthorne is precisely the Mr. Right we’re looking for.”
“It’s hockey season now,” I say, and Clark’s eyes wrinkle, even though everyone should know that people play hockey in the winter, and it’s late November now.
“Maybe he won’t be able to participate.”
“Right.” Clark nods. “Well, it would be a shame not to have him.”
I paste a regretful smile on my face and wish I’d adopted a more appeasing manner to begin with. “He probably has to play in different cities.”
“Hockey players have a difficult schedule,” Mateo pipes in, and I nod rapidly.
“Filming is demanding. Those dates.”
Clark shrugs. “You’ll figure it out. You always do. We’ve never had a professional athlete before, but that won’t stopSeeking Mr. Right.”
The other production members look like they’re going to burst into applause.
It’s always a thrill for them to have a meeting with Clark. The man has been behind so much amazing reality TV. This is the third show I’m hosting with his studio, and I have to say thatSeeking Mr. Righthas always been my favorite.
I square my shoulders, and pretend my heart isn’t racing, pretend this isn’t personal to me, pretend that maybe Clark is right after all.
