CHAPTER EIGHT

L uke

Snowflakes drift lazily through the early December sky when we exit my apartment building, swirling under the glossy historic streetlamps. I hurry toward the double-parked limo, aware of Sebastian’s presence behind me.

We scramble into the limo. Black cameras face us, and I stare at them uncertainly.

“They’re not on yet,” Sebastian says, his voice calm. “You need to, um...”

I turn to him.

He’s not as close to me as he was inside the apartment, but I don’t miss the way he sweeps his gaze over me, and I don’t miss his frown.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Snow!” he blurts. “You have snowflakes on you.”

I dab my tux uncertainly, and white flecks melt into the expensive black wool.

“May I?” he asks, his voice low like one of those string instruments played at fancy charities.

I nod, then his fingers brush over me again, and he moves his hand through my hair. He leans back. “There. All done.”

“No snowflakes?”

“You’re perfect.” His eyes widen, but I know what he means.

I look at the cameras. Sebastian has already briefed me on what will happen.

“I’ll add a voice over,” he says, his voice low. “No point having you talk when we’re driving through city traffic. Too unpredictable. I just want to get some B-roll now of you.”

“O-okay.” My heart stutters.

He smiles. “It’s okay for you to look nervous. You might be meeting your future spouse.”

I blink, and for some strange reason I think he means himself and I want to tell him we already met.

I also want to tell him we met long ago. Maybe he’ll laugh and exclaim, and we’ll talk about Ashcove. But he was different back then, less dazzling, even though he always drew my attention. His body was softer, his limbs more gangly, his clothes plainer, more printed t-shirts from cardboard boxes at Goodwill than designer tux.

My forehead must be scrunched up or something, because he says, “the women.”

“Women?”

He gives me a what-the-hell, I-guess-hockey-players-are-as-intellectually-challenged-as-I-assumed look. “Think about the ten women.”

“Right. Lots of women. Cool.”

He gives me a funny look but doesn’t say anything. “So don’t talk and look nervous.”

“Easy.”

He smiles and flicks the cameras on while I lean into the trepidation that swoops around me and settles into each cell.

“Now look more intrigued,” he says, and I try to rearrange my features into something that resembles excitement, even though my heart beats unsteadily, and my veins leap and jump, the way they sometimes do before big games. The surge of adrenaline doesn’t come that I normally feel when I’m about to get on the ice, the excitement that I’m going to do my favorite thing, be challenged in new and interesting ways, and that I might improve my record or even get my first NHL hat trick.

Maybe I’ll live happily ever after with one of the women I’m going to meet tonight, but when I try to visualize forever and always with a beautiful woman, all I see is dull gray and murky brown, and my veins skitter even more than before.

The limo slows, and I realize we’re on Commonwealth Avenue.

It’s going to start. God, it’s going to start.

Even though Sebastian talked me through everything, the only thing I feel is nervousness.

Sebastian and I exit the limo in front of a Back Bay brownstone.

Large black cameras flank the entrance like modern monsters, the one-eye of the Cyclopes in my children’s books replaced by the shiny camera lens, and onlookers stare in our direction.

My chest tightens, and my breath sputters at a more rapid pace than normal.

Sebastian slides his gaze at me, as if he can hear my heart pound, even swaddled by the blood skittering through my body, and the luxurious, fashionable clothes I have no business wearing. “You’ll be fine. You’re going to comment on how nice the building is and how excited you are to meet your true love.”

I nod, and his comment is nice, but I’m not sure if it’s motivated by an actual certainty I’ll do well or simply a desire to calm me before I’m about to be watched by millions of people. Surely, there’s only so much that editing can achieve. Nobody wants their Mr. Right pale-faced and trembling.

I inhale a deep breath of air like I do at the start of any game, because I’ve totally got this, because nobody will do this for me.

I crane my head up. “Wow. This is amazing.”

My gaze flicks to Sebastian, and he gives me the warm smile I see on the show but which I haven’t seen him give me.

“Yes. We have ten women who are thrilled to meet you.”

My chest twists, but I nod. “Well, I’m very excited to meet them.”

The limo rolls away, then stops, and a woman scurries inside in the distance. Finally, the limo turns back toward me.

My eyes must widen because Sebastian bites back a smile. Then the limo rumbles toward me. The snow has been imperfectly cleaned, and the black limo rumbles over slushy dark puddles and packed snow, avoiding the worst impediments.

This looks less glamorous than any of the shows I’ve seen, but maybe the cameras will focus on the top of the limo, and less on the mucky mess beneath.

The limo stops and Sebastian glides toward it. He stretches out his hand, his fingers long and steady, and opens the door. In the next moment, he’s helping a willowy blonde in a sky-blue gown from the door.

And I suppose this might be my future wife.

Her green eyes glimmer when she sees me. “I’m Dahlia.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Dahlia. I’m Luke.”

“You’ll have to teach me about hockey. I’m good at learning.”

“Oh yeah?”

She nods. “I’m getting a doctorate in public health.”

I blink, and she giggles.

“You would have been perfect for the original Mr. Right,” I say.

Sebastian closes his eyes, but his lips twitch. “Cut.”

“Did I do that wrong?”

“We’re going to pretend you’re not a replacement.”

I nod. “Right. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

In the distance, another attractive woman, this time in a purple dress, enters the limo. The limo turns around the corner, and I hate that I’m holding things up.

“Does she need to get back in the limo?” I ask.

“No, you’re fine,” Sebastian says, his voice calm. “From the introduction.”

Even though this filming hasn’t gone great so far, because of my ability to say the wrong thing, Sebastian’s voice is steady and reassuring. He’s seemed much more unsure when there weren’t any cameras on us, and we were alone.

Now he’s in his element, and I wish I could just watch him, and I didn’t need to make conversation with this stranger. I wish I didn’t need to pretend to feel chemistry with Dahlia so viewers at home will excitedly discuss our potential as lifetime partners and whether in a few years we’ll have children running around who share both of our facial features, her nose, my eyes, my chin, her cheeks.

My chest feels hollow, as it always does when I imagine a life post-hockey, or even when I imagine returning from away games to some suburban dream house with a beautiful woman to slink her floral-scented arms around me and press her glossy lips against my own.

I’m glad Troy lives with me now, and since he hasn’t had a steady girlfriend in a while, I’m confident our life won’t have to change. Some guys wonder why we don’t have our own apartment, since money is no issue, even in high-priced Boston, but I like the company.

Sebastian clears his throat, and I realize my thoughts have wandered, as if something will occur to me that will make my whole life make sense. The only thing that’s ever made sense to me is each individual hockey game. I know what I’m supposed to do to succeed in them, and I can spend my time perfecting my body and my skills, so it’s easier and easier to chase after the puck, wrangle it from any opposing team players, and whack it into the net.

Each year I play better hockey than the year before, though I’m more and more confused by women.

“Hi, I’m Dahlia,” Dahlia says in her cheerful, southern-accented soprano voice.

“That’s a pretty name,” I say, because I think that’s something that I should say.

She beams at me, her pink-lipstick smothered lips stretching upward, and her heavily mascara-ed lashes swoop up.

My gaze flicks to Sebastian’s automatically, because I guess I want to know what he thinks, because he’s the host. His smile is bright, but his eyes don’t dance, and he reminds me of one of those brittle Nutcrackers we see in stores at this time of year.

“I’m excited to learn about hockey,” she says.

“Oh, yeah?” I do my best flirtation, lingering in her eyes, like I see Dmitri do when he visits bars, and all the women look like they’re going to follow him anywhere, to any bed, or perhaps just a conveniently placed bathroom stall, no matter how short of a time he wants them.

Dahlia’s eyes are blue, like Sebastian, though the shade is paler and less bright than Sebastian’s eyes.

“You like learning?” I ask, unsure if I’m good at flirting, but maybe the point is paying attention to the other person.

“I have a doctorate in public health,” she says.

This time I don’t mention she would have been a perfect fit for the Mr. Right chosen before.

This time I only smile. “I guess you have the brains, and I—”

“Have the brawns,” she finishes for me, her eyes sparkling, and it’s easy to imagine everyone who will watch later leaning forward, declaring us definitely on our way to being married.

Sebastian nods, his face cool and impassive as he leads her into the house. I watch him go, my heart sinking as I realize I have nine more women to pretend to fall in love with.