Page 87 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
“I’ll keep you away from Bryce,” I say. “I mean, he would have told me if he recognized you.”
Sebastian’s shoulders relax a fraction. “Maybe.”
“He would think it was hysterical,” I promise him. “He absolutely would have texted me. It would be all over our family WhatsApp group.”
“Your family has its own WhatsApp group?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It’s a technology thing. I can set it up for you...”
“So, my mother has another place where she can ask me for money.” Sebastian shakes his head. “No thanks. I mean, I’m not cruel. I-I do want to share. But I already bought her a house, and she’s always on drugs and I don’t think I want her to have too much money in case it goes to something...nefarious.”
My stomach sinks. I’m pretty sure Sebastian’s mom is as startling imperfect as her son is startling perfect. I stroke his hair. “I’m so sorry.”
He nestles his head against me, and I inhale his Tom Ford cologne, more sophisticated than anything most of us athletes spray on ourselves in here, where sweat is the prevalent scent. “What is this room?”
“It’s our massage room.”
“It didn’t make the tour last time.”
“Don’t want to give people the wrong impression about us.”
“That you spend your time inhaling eucalyptus?” His eyes dance again, and everything in my body warms, as if he’s flung a lit match at me.
“Yeah. Might give Montreal the wrong impression.”
He giggles against me.
“Feeling better?” I ask.
“Not if I think about everything wrong.”
“Want me to give you a massage?”
He gives me a strange look.
I lock the door. It makes a resounding sound when it clicks.
It’s definitely locked.
We’re definitely alone.
“I’m giving you a massage,” I say.
“I’m not a Blizzards athlete.”
“Well, I’m not a Blizzards masseuse.”
“We’d get in trouble.”
“Good thing I told everyone we were filming.”
“Pretty sure no one wants to hear you expound upon your views of having a dental or a doctor room in your NHL mansion.”
“I’ve always been partial to video recording rooms,” I say.
