Page 2 of You're The One
A sentence I never thought would ever leave my mouth, but it’s the truth.
Reallove is what I’m after.
And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s what’s gone wrong with my previous dates. Some of them were probably looking for love, too, but their version came with stipulations. They wanted someone well known. Respected. Someone with enough zeros in their bank account and enough weight to their name to get them onto the most exclusive lists.
No one has really given two shits aboutme, the guy who eats cold lo mein at midnight and has an ironically unironic love for romance novels. They’ve all wanted Dominic Fox, the Chicago Saints’ first-line winger.
And I’m not even going to be that for much longer.
My playing years are numbered. At thirty-one, I only have so many seasons left. I’m going to give it everything I’ve got until I can’t anymore, but I’m realistic; most NHL players retire in their mid-thirties.
I’m not going to be one of those assholes who destroys his body to keep reliving the glory days.
I want to settle down. Move on to the next chapter.
Whatever it holds, I know I don’t want it to include unfulfilling one-night stands, countless first dates, or coming home to an empty house every night. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.
I lift another forkful of noodles to my mouth and hit nothing but metal.Well, that went fast.
I toss the empty container and fork onto the coffee table and resume my search for Mrs. Right. Just ten more swipes. Then I’ll call it a night.A failed one.
When I’m down to only three swipes—the first seven were all left, if you’re curious—I come across a face I know well, and it catches me completely off guard.
Her blue eyes are the opposite of mine, so pale they look like sea glass. And her waist-length, nearly black hair makes them all the more hypnotizing. Her expression is one that’s never beenaimed in my direction. Sweet but flirty, filled with humor, like she’s keeping a secret she has no intention of sharing. I’m sure this photo alone has every guy who sees it swiping right. If I didn’t know her, I’d be doing the same.
I keep scrolling. One picture shot at a hockey game (predictable), one with dogs I’d bet money are from Hannah’s rescue,Highways to Homes, and the last, a selfie taken with a view I can see from my own window if I bothered to look outside.
Her profile doesn’t say much. A love of travel. The Saints—her brother’s team, and mine. Volunteering at Hannah’s rescue. Indecision about a career. Her theory on life:Stuck in a riptide? Swim sideways.
Whatever that means. Which brings me to the question: how the hell is she on here? Unless she’s using Logan’s bank account, I’m pretty sure unemployed doesn’t fit the membership criteria of this “exclusive” app.
I toss my phone onto the cushion and throw my head back with a huff. Is this a sign? If it is, I have no idea how to interpret it. I know I’m running out of options ifshe’sone of my potential matches.
Mia Matthews is the bane of my existence.
Okay, that might be a little dramatic. I don’t actually have a problem with her, but she seems to have one with me. And why? No fucking clue. She dislikes me, and no matter how many times I’ve tried to bury the hatchet—one I’m not even sure why she lodged in my back—she remains icy toward me.
I laugh to myself as an idea forms. I pick the phone back up, thankful the cushion didn’t make the decision for me. I swipe right, knowing full well she’ll either give me a verbal lashing or… no, that’s the only option I can see happening.
Okay, maybe she has a tiny reason to hate me.I like riling her up almost as much as she likes giving me shit.
With that done, I lock my phone, deciding I don’t need to tempt fate further with my two remaining swipes.
That’s when a jingle pulls my attention to the TV.You’re The Onestarts up. A re-run. I already watched last season with Logan and Hannah, who got me into the show in the first place.
They’ve been fans since college, and I gave him endless shit about it until I got sucked in, too.
Like most reality TV, it’s a little over the top and a lot ridiculous, but there’s something about this one that feels weirdly real. Like the guy actually finds his person, even with all the chaos a show like that must throw at him.
How is that possible? And yet I can’t even land a second date. Would dating twenty-four women at once improve my odds?
The show’s theme fades into the background, a not-so-subtle reminder of the email sitting in my inbox.
My head tips side to side, a motion I’ve done daily since I first opened the message a week ago.
Open it. Close it. Reread the subject line. Debate. Repeat. I don’t know why I haven’t just deleted it.
Curiosity? Loneliness? Hope?
