CHAPTER TWO

L uke

“Time to find some chicks!” Dmitri announces as we leave the ice, and my stomach drops.

“Chicks? What English textbooks did you have in Russia?” Troy asks.

Dmitri shoves Troy against the tunnel wall, and I avoid their laughing, writhing, muscular bodies as I clomp toward the locker room. Skates make everything unsteady when walking on solid ground, but my heart is light. The audience still cheers as we exit the ice after our win.

Obviously, another win is amazing. Though we were playing Carolina. We always knew we were going to win. The other team knew too, which made it easier. Mindset is huge, and tonight we had it, and they didn’t.

But there’s another reason I’m excited.

Tonight, the new Mr. Right will be announced. They’re filming this season in Boston. Their previous Mr. Right, some fancy doctor, backed out at the last moment, since he was sufficiently eligible that he found true love in advance of the show.

We tear off our jerseys and pads and leggings and fling them into the laundry baskets that appear after every game, then storm into the showers. Water squishes beneath our feet, and the guys plan their evenings, high off our wins and the two-points we’ve just added. Once we’re vaguely presentable—the suits we need to wear help, Troy and I go with Dmitri to answer interview questions. It’s not my favorite portion of the job, but I had two assists tonight and I have an A on my jersey, so I can’t hide in the swanky, super-modern locker room with its golden light and soft benches and wood-paneled walls, like I used to. Journalists seem to be satisfied when I speak about teamwork and focus. Public speaking was a hard no for me in high school, and I don’t enjoy it more when I’m being filmed. Thankfully, Evan always does most of the talking, and Troy had a shutout, which interests the media more than my work as second-line center.

Troy and Dmitri drag me to their favorite sports bar, and people begin shoving drinks into our hands practically as we enter, even though we can afford the price.

Music thrums, but I can barely hear the lyrics over the people chattering around me. Puck bunnies swarm the bar, clothed in their favorite jerseys, and Troy flirts with them. I see my jersey number on loud, busty blondes and sultry brunettes. The more confident ones sashay their way through the crowd to talk to us. The less confident ones giggle in corners, some snapping strategic selfies.

It’s cool, obviously.

I won’t complain about fame.

Personally, dark sports bars with questionable music and the scent of beer and smoke isn’t my thing. Maybe when I was twenty-one and twenty-two and this world was new and exciting. Less so now.

I like exercise and movement. Jogging on the Charles is cool. And when I want to relax and wait for the pain of sore muscles and bruises and old injuries to subside, I prefer my couch. Ideally, watching one of my favorite shows.

“Great assists.” A redhead slides up to me, and her floral scent fills my nostrils. I guess it’s an improvement on the scent of beer.

She bats her lashes, so dark and long she must be using extensions. Thick eyeliner smudges her lids, and I want to ask her if she ever gets it in her eyes.

“Thanks.” I smile at her.

I don’t have the game the other guys do, but it never much matters. The bar is too noisy for actual conversation anyway.

The woman launches into a speech on the highlights of my career, and I make appropriate sounds of being impressed at her sports knowledge.

Troy and Dmitri wink, then wander farther away, as if I’m supposed to be happy talking to a stranger. She’s hot. That’s easy to tell. Her face is appropriately symmetrical, her bosom is appropriately curved, and her waist is appropriately narrow.

And part of me does want to invite her to my place. It might be cool. But last time I tried to get together with someone, I didn’t actually get it up. I’m not sure why a naked stranger on my bed is supposed to be appealing, but clearly my opinion puts me in the minority.

“Want another drink?” I ask.

She beams at me, as if I’ve just proposed, and my stomach hollows.

Maybe another beer will make me feel more settled, and I lead her to the bar. People smile at me, others nudge one another, excited to spot a Blizzard in the wild.

I order us both drinks, and I can already see her planning our future life together, her installed in the special WAG section, me gliding around the ice in front of the cameras.

I guess it’s not horrible. Maybe I should get a girlfriend. At least then if I go to bars on away games, I can tell everyone I’m taken.

“Can you believe that cardiologist backed out of Seeking Mr. Right ?” A woman behind me says in an exasperated alto voice. “What are they going to do?”

I turn around. Some women in their thirties are talking together.

“Right? Like that’s so uncool!” I exclaim. “It’s great he found true love on his own, but he wasn’t supposed to look for it before the show.”

The women’s mouths drop.

“You watch Seeking Mr. Right ?” one of them asks me tentatively.

“I mean...sometimes,” I lie.

I watch every episode. But for some reason, Troy and the others think this is strange.

I grab my new beer from the counter, hand my new companion her drink, and turn to the other women. “Do you think they’ll change to a new city?”

“No way. There’s gotta be another eligible man who can do it,” one woman says.

“You could do it!” her friend squeals.

The redhead’s face pales, her WAG dreams drifting away. I give a quick search of the bar to see if any of the single men are currently not flirting.

Troy and Dmitri have already left. Maybe Troy wants to get to the apartment before me so he can do some of the private things I don’t need to hear him do. Like a variety of high-pitched squeals that last for almost an hour, like he and his hookup are writing an opera together.

Anyway, talking to someone about Seeking Mr. Right is way cooler.

“You could so be Mr. Right!” the woman continues.

“No way. They wouldn’t want a professional athlete. They usually have doctors and things. People who not only graduated college, but also graduated from medical school or law school. People who do more than just strike pucks.”

“What are you talking about? Everyone loves professional athletes! You’re like the perfect husband.”

My companion stiffens beside me.

“Unless...” She flicks her gaze head between us. “Are you together?”

“We just met,” I say.

The redhead gives me a tight smile. No doubt she would so rather be talking about me about hockey stats, as if that’s a requirement for hanging out with me.

“And you’re single?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’ve never had a girlfriend, have you?” the redhead asks.

I stiffen.

“I’m going to leave. Nice talking to you.” She hurries off, and I realize I should have probably asked her her name.

That’s one reason why I’m not suitable to go on the show.

Though probably on the show they give useful one-pagers about everyone, with their name and face and key interests and location.

“I’ve had girlfriends before,” I say to the women, but the redhead is not completely wrong.

Girls have a tendency to tell me they’ve developed feelings for my friends and wander off, and I have a tendency to feel relieved when they do so.

Like now I’m relieved the redhead is chatting to Jason.

“I should go home,” I say, already thinking about catching up on old episodes of Seeking Mr. Right .

The redhead is now chatting enthusiastically with Jason, their gazes dipping to various parts of their bodies. Good for them. I don’t know why everyone acts like I’m missing out on something amazing.

My phone pings with a notification: “ Seeking Mr. Right Announces Surprise Celebrity Lead.”

I click on it eagerly, then frown.

Why is there a photo of me attached to the headline?