Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“We know,” Miles says, sounding exasperated. “We’re aware.”
“Then what’s the problem? Why do I need a date? Dating is for other people.”
And mostly, that’s true. I’ll go out now and then, but I’m done handing over my heart. After that brutal Christmas almost five years ago when my ex eviscerated the organ in my chest, I put a hard stop at the third date. No attachments, no risks. The gala is a big fucking deal. You bring girlfriends, wives, partners—not some woman you met last week on an app.
“The problem,” Miles begins, his tone thoughtful, like a teacher, “is that every year at the Christmas Eve gala, when we want to have a good time with our wives and girlfriends and enjoy the mistletoe with them, we have to take turns babysitting you and listening to your hate list instead.”
Ouch. “Dig the knife in a little deeper, why don’t you?”
“Rowan. Seriously. I mean it,” Miles says.
I peer at my back, miming tugging out a blade. “Can you all see the stab wound? It’s pretty bloody.”
“Dude, you do have a hate list and we’re all subjected to it,” Tyler says, like he’s been champing at the bit to make this point for eleven consecutive months.
“You weren’t even at the gala last year,” I point out.
“But I heard all about it. And I was at the end-of-season picnic with Sabrina, and we were definitely subjected to your hate list then too,” Tyler adds, digging even deeper with his knife.
“I do not have a hate list,” I protest.
The whole group erupts into laughter.
“I hate holiday music,” Hugo says, imitating me. “I hate Mariah Carey. I hate wrapping paper. I hate tinsel.’”
“You even hate my cool tunes,” Wesley chimes in, chest puffed, like he’s ready to bro battle me. “Plus, you hate tinsel? What the fuck, man?”
“Let’s not forget—you complain about commercialism,” Max adds.
“That’s a valid complaint. The world doesn’t need more stuff,” I say. Or maybe I shout it.
“But even if you don’t buy more things, you can still give experiences as gifts,” Tyler says, then shoots me an I know what you did an hour ago look. “Like buying carolers for your enemy.”
My jaw comes unhinged. How the hell does he know what I plan to do with the carolers? Am I that transparent? I knock back some scotch to avoid the questioning—both from him and from the little voice in my head.
But the hits keep coming as Jason pins me with a look and goes for the jugular. “And every year at the gala, you issue your warning. ‘If anyone else tells me how they met their true love at Christmas, I’m going to tell them my story just to ruin their night.’”
Ouch. I sound like an asshole. Like a giant jerk of a cat who knocks mugs and shit off counters for no reason, then pisses in them too. Still, that doesn’t mean I want to be set up. Crossing my arms, I glare at them. “Your solution is a matchmaker?”
Jason grins, his confidence never wavering, his eyes gleaming as he says, “My sister is going to find a date for you. In one short year, Isla’s become one of the best matchmakers in the city. She matched the executive director of the San Francisco Art Museum with a noted venture capitalist. She paired one of the agents in my office with an artist that Asher’s wife knows. And,” he says, then takes a deep, too satisfying breath, “she matched your coach with his new girlfriend.”
Damn. Coach McBride had been notoriously single for some time. I blow out a breath but say nothing.
“Her client list is incredible,” he continues. “And her success rate is way better than your shot percentage.”
I want to argue that a shot percentage for a defenseman isn’t supposed to be high. But one, he knows that. And two, the air feels heavy right now.
I hide a gulp as best I can while I look around at the guys I go to war with every day on the ice. I see the care in their faces—they’re irritatingly earnest. They really think this is for my own good. And worse, I realize something I’ve never thought of before: I’ve been ruining their good time. I flash back to the last few galas. Fine, maybe I complained about the decor. Possibly I groused about the guests. Likely, I went kicking and screaming into the event just like I did earlier tonight. And yup, they fucking babysat my single ass.
Embarrassment, and maybe even some shame, slams into me. These guys are my family, and I hate that I’ve been the one to dampen the mood.
“Fine,” I grumble. “But this doesn’t mean I’ll like it.”
“You will,” Miles says with infuriating certainty.
“Doubtful. But whatever.”
Jason’s smirk turns into a smile. A real one. Like he wants this for me. Badly. “The date isn’t just for the gala, by the way,” he says, too hopeful for my taste, but perfectly on brand for his happy ass. “It’s for the next thing, and the next thing after that. You know, to give you some…momentum.”