Page 82 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
“You interview me in private,” Luke says. “We can see each other then.”
I nod.
We’re halfway finished with this show. The implication is that once the interviews are done, I won’t see Luke anymore.
But it’s fine.
Totally fine.
I’ll have seen more of Luke than I possibly could have hoped for. And in three weeks I’ll be seeing him on the flat screen of my apartment, watching him play hockey, watching the Entertainment News channels talk about his future life with whichever woman he picks.
There will probably be a breakup reported in a few months because God, that’s what always happens on these shows, but for years, every new girlfriend will be eagerly reported by the media.
He will always be in my life as long as I have a TV and follow sports and entertainment accounts on social media. Soon, this physical version of Luke won’t be there. He’s already not naked beside me. Soon, he will transform into a glossy 2-D version, and my heart will ache every time it sees him.
It already does.
I’m pretty sure it always will.
Rain whooshes around us when we exit the hotel, and the hotel manager personally apologizes for the leaked photo.
The sky is gray upon gray, and the wind is not intimidated by the rain, and continues to blow with full force.
It’s a miserable day, but I stare at all the pastel stone buildings of Vieux-Montreal with wonder when we pass it as we head toward the airport. The fog turns everything fairytale-like, and I wonder if I’ve imagined everything that happened between us. I slide my gaze to Luke.
He squeezes his hands together, as if to remind himself not to reach out and touch me, not to grip my fingers in his own.
We arrive at the airport and after a stint in the lounge, we take our first-class seats back to Boston. The wide seats are normally pleasant, but I wish we’d been squeezed together in economy, where are legs might touch, our shoulders might graze, and no one would think anything of it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Luke
“What do you mean, we’re not staying in Boston?”
I blink at Ella over the Blizzards’ conference table. Since joining the show, I’ve been in this room more times than I’ve ever desired. I’m the kind of player who stays as far away from management as possible. I slide my gaze around the room from Daniela to Oskar to Nate to Sebastian in order to see what they think.
It’s a mistake. Golden light streams from the floor-to-ceiling windows, swathing Sebastian in a shimmery light. I am totally up for anytime Sebastian wants to suck on me.
Last night was...
Sebastian’s eyes blaze, and maybe I’m staring at him lustfully, and maybe Sebastian is sort of staring at me lustfully because Oskar chooses that time to cough.
Sometimes I think he might be onto us. I’m not quite sure what I said in Montreal when I was loopy from painkillers and buoyed by the knowledge Sebastian would be coming to the hotel with me, but from the curious looks Oskar and Dr. Novak both shoot me, I have the feeling I wasn’t the most discreet.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll be discreet now. My plan is not to get reinjured, not to lower my inhibitions, not to gaze at Sebastian in wonder...
Oskar coughs again. “Sorry! I guess I have a cold.”
“Should I turn up the heat?” Daniela asks.
“It’s already hot enough,” Oskar mumbles.
Daniela’s eyebrows lurch upward, but luckily Ella begins to speak again, flailing her arms in that enthusiastic LA manner that gets people to pledge millions of dollars and mortgage their house and their children’s houses all for the pursuit of a dream and fancy cameras videotaping people pretending to be other people.
“You’re not cleared to play yet,” Ella reminds me.
I’m not the type of guy who generally scowls at people, and cheerfulness is something that has never irritated me, but there’s surely no reason for her to look so upbeat.
