Page 1 of You're The One
YOU’RE THE WORST
ONE
Statistically speaking,how many bad dates does one person have to endure before meetingthe one?
If we were talking hockey stats, I’d have a much better idea.
My average goals per season? Twenty-three over the last five years. Back in my rookie years, when I was young and cocky, I hit thirty-four.
My shot accuracy? Hovers around fifteen percent.
My plus-minus? Consistently in the top twenty-five for left-wingers league-wide.
The odds of burying a puck on a breakaway? Low.
The odds of finding a first date I actually want to take on a second? Apparently, even lower.
Case in point: my fourth failed date this week.
And that’s not counting the weeks of trying in the lead-up to this one.
I toe off my Allen Edmonds leather loafers, shutting the door behind me with an echo that reverberates through the room, and head for the fridge. It’s just as barren as this massive house.
Hiring an interior designer to do something with the space has been on my to-do list since I moved in a handful of months ago. I’m not even sure I know whathomeis supposed to looklike, but this definitely isn’t it. White walls, clean lines, and modern furniture, most of it two sizes too small for my frame, or for any company I might have over. Which, realistically, means my dad, teammates, or the occasional book club meeting… currently made up of Hannah and—nope, that’s it. That’s the whole list.
I dig around until I find a takeout container of lo mein and sniff it, checking if it’s gone bad. It can’t be older than a couple days… a week at most.
My trainer would lose his mind if he knew I was scarfing Chinese food at midnight. I was religious about my routine for the first decade, but after thirteen years in the league, I’ve let a few things slide. Especially in the off-season.
I shovel in a bite, barely catching a runaway noodle before it stains my baby-blue button-up and ruins another of my date shirts. They’re all some shade of blue to accentuate my eyes, according to Hannah, and form-fitting to show off the body I spend half the year working for on the ice and the whole year maintaining in the gym, according to Natalie and Ada.
Living next door to my best friend and teammate comes with perks, one of which is the fashion advice from his girl and her group of friends who have also become mine.
Maybe that’s my problem: the shirt. It might be bad luck.
I shake my head. I’m usually not this superstitious outside of the season. During the season? I’m like every other hockey player who finds something that coincides with a win and refuses to change it.
They’ve ranged from texting my dad before every game to keeping a woman’s hair tie around my wrist to wearing the same pair of socks. Don’t worry, I washed them. Can’t say the same for a few guys I’ve played with.
But there’s got to be more I’m getting wrong than the shirt. When I decided to give love a shot, I didn’t expect it to be quiteso hard to find. Normally, no one can resist my charm. Scratch that. There’s one woman. The same one whose hair tie gave me luck two seasons ago. I guess we can add these failed dates to the shortlist of people immune.
I set the noodles on the coffee table, unbutton my shirt, and drape it over a chair before dropping onto the couch. If I’m going to feel sorry for myself, I should at least do it in relative comfort… or as much as my too-firm furniture allows. I flip on the TV to give the room some light, not bothering to check what’s on. With a sigh, I pull out my phone.
After that disaster of a date, I figured I’d at least salvage the night by asking Logan to meet up. Still no reply.
If the shirt can’t be blamed, then it’s his fault I’m here. Everything was fine until he went and fell in love. The way he is with Hannah is equal parts sickening and inspiring. And he makes it look so damn easy.
I want that too, a love story of my own.
I close out our text thread and open the dating app I’ve been using, falling back into the routine I know all too well: swiping.
The solution to one bad date? Go looking for another.
By now, the profiles have started to blur together.
I was recommended this one, apparently designed for “high-caliber people”—celebrities, athletes, influencers. I think the connecting thread is that everyone thinks pretty highly of themselves. And I know, here I am. Stones and glass houses and all that.
I’m really not looking for a certain kind of person. I’m just looking for someone to love. Someone who might even love me back.
