CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

S ebastian

Snow sparkles in heaps on either side of the cobbled streets of Vieux-Montreal, strings of white lights shimmer between buildings, and steam rises from underground passages into the violet dusk.

“I can’t believe we’re in Montreal!” Dahlia squeals, and the other girls clap their hands with the same vigor.

A few Canadians stare at us, unaccustomed to cameras and a set following three gorgeous women around.

Willow, Dahlia, and Flora are the remaining women. I said goodbye to Katie and Greta after a cold duck tour. Brisk Montreal wind keeps the streets bare for us, and the women are rosy-cheeked in their heavy puffy coats that stretch almost to the ground. The sky is a gloomy steel-metal gray. It would be too much to hope for a brighter, more camera-friendly blue. But the women seem sufficiently intrigued by the pastel-colored stone buildings that line Montreal, exclaiming at their similarity to Europe, that continent of good-taste.

Luke is absent, a fact we don’t dwell upon. They’ll see him at tonight’s game, and with some good editing, we can all pretend Luke showed them around Montreal too.

Finally, it’s time for them to see their first hockey game. We have them meet the WAGs, who tell them about life married to a hockey player.

“There can be injuries,” one says.

“And long hours,” another says.

“Well, doctors have long hours too,” Willow says.

Ella frowns. Willow, Dahlia, and Flora were chosen for their potential compatibility with a cardiologist, and sometimes it’s difficult for them to feign appropriate enthusiasm for being potentially married to a professional athlete.

The game starts, and Luke is amazing.

Even the most disinterested hockey viewer notices at once. Luke flies across the ice, as if wings, not blades, are on his feet. I can’t keep my eyes from him. Only when I realize the women are watching the puck glide and jump across the ice, does it occur to me that I probably should keep my eyes on something besides Luke Hawthorne.

The task is almost impossible.

Even swaddled in pads and a helmet, he is perfect. His blond locks might be covered, his blue eyes might be obscured by the thick plastic in front of him, a bulky jersey might be flung over his body, and he might wear odd short-like material over his lower half...But he is perfect.

He is graceful and kind on the ice, observant and quick.

I lean forward.

Sometimes, I think he notices me in the stands. Sometimes, I think his eyes go to mine, and he smiles.

It’s probably my imagination. He’s so far away, and he is just looking in the general direction of the cameras because he is a good man.