Chapter 5
five
RYAN
“Okay, right. Ryan, can you just skate around and maybe hit a couple pucks into the net?” Rich asks.
“Yeah, sure,” I say.
I grab my practice stick and a few pucks from the PA standing on the side of the rink.
It’s just B-roll, I remind myself. Smile. Be charming. Don’t think about the girl who used to flinch when I said her name and now looks at me like she’s daring me to flinch instead.
“We’re just establishing you as a person in these shots,” Rich continues. “What you like, what you don’t, what kind of woman you’re looking for… all that jazz.”
He gestures toward the ice. “We’ve got a bunch of B-roll of your town, your friends and family talking about you, but now we need your story straight from the source. Hans here is going to follow you out while you skate and score a bunch of goals. That cool?”
“Yeah. Whatever you want.”
I push away from the sidewall and skate into the center, dropping the pucks and controlling them with my stick.
I’m a defenseman for the Atlanta Ice Storms, so I don’t even know if slapping pucks into the net is a good representation of what I actually do. But Rich is pretty insistent on people needing to see pucks in goals.
Rich wades out onto the ice behind the cameraman. Neither of them moves like they’re comfortable out here. This is their first time shooting on location at a hockey rink. This show isn’t about hockey players in general.
I slap the puck toward the net. It hits the back of the goal cleanly. I skate around the cameraman and Rich in a wide circle.
“So, Ryan,” Rich calls, “go ahead and explain why you’re on The Last Kiss this year. What are you looking for in a relationship? Your goals romantically, etcetera.”
I knit my brows as I skate. The ice is smooth, perfect, like it is just before a game.
How the hell do I even begin to answer that?
“I’m on The Last Kiss because I want to find my soulmate.”
Okay. That’s a little bit of a lie.
I barely keep a straight face. If I really believed in soulmates, I wouldn’t be here. I’m here for one reason: money. Security. Making damn sure I never end up back in that shitty apartment with no power and nothing in the fridge.
But nobody’s really asked me that outright.
The lines come easy. They’re not mine, but I’ve said worse things with a smile. I’m not looking for love. I’m looking for survival. And a little less silence in my apartment.
I suck in a breath. “I would like to meet my soulmate. I’ve dated a lot, and so far, I haven’t found the one I’m meant to be with forever. But I think I have a real shot here.”
At what, though? Fame? Faking it? Getting clipped into some girl’s dream montage before we ever even have a real conversation?
Stopping near the pile of pucks, I grab another and move it down the ice toward the goal.
I know I need to recite the lines Rich has been drilling into me. He’s not just a showrunner, he’s a coach, my coach, in a way. Helping me craft the perfect answers.
It feels phony saying most of it out loud, but that’s what I’m getting paid for. These lines aren’t mine. They’re scripted. Manufactured. A real relationship? That’s a hell of a lot messier. I know, because I’ve never actually had one that didn’t crash and burn.
I shoot the puck into the net and turn, lifting my hands in the air like I just won the Cup.
“Yes!” I exclaim.
Rich grins. “You’re looking good out there, Ryan. Can you talk a little about your expectations? How do you feel about meeting the bachelorettes? Nervous?”
I skate in another wide circle.
“I’m excited,” I say. “You know, I have a little bit of a reputation as a ladies’ man. But that’s the old Ryan. I want to settle down. Hopefully, one of the women I’m going to meet today makes me want to get down on one knee.”
It’s a half truth. I’m not excited about the spotlight or the contestants or the weekly eliminations. But there’s one thing I can’t stop thinking about. Or one person, perhaps. And that’s very much not a part of the script.
If Wren sees this, she’ll roll her eyes. Call it a performance. Maybe it is. But I’m not lying about everything.
“Tell us a little about your family, Ryan.”
My jaw tightens. I skate back to the pile of pucks, separating one and controlling it with my stick as I loop the rink.
“Well… Ellie’s my little sister.”
I flip the puck upward and catch it on the blade, then dribble it a few times. It’s pure showboating. I know that. But I can’t help myself.
“Ellie’s my whole world. We’re extremely close. I’m lucky to have her in my life.”
Rich tilts his head. “And your parents?”
“My parents aren’t really in my life,” I say flatly. “That’s not something I want to get into.”
“Well, who raised you, then?”
“My Aunt Diane did a lot of the heavy lifting. We’re lucky we had her.” I glance toward the camera. “And he’s not technically family, but I owe a lot of my hockey skills, and honestly, my temper control, to Coach T. He’s been with me since I was a kid. Still comes to almost all of my games.”
“No mom and dad, though, huh?” Rich asks.
I feel my expression pinch.
“I think I turned out okay. What do you think?”
I turn away from the camera and skate hard toward the goal, firing a shot that bounces off the post and into the net.
“Well…” Rich starts, but a low buzzing sound cuts him off.
He pulls a walkie-talkie from his back pocket, speaks into it, and then nods.
“Okay. We’re going to start bringing the girls in now.”
“What, here?” I ask, gesturing to the ice. “You got a bunch of girls who can skate or something?”
Living in Atlanta, I know most of these women probably didn’t grow up ice skating. Roller skating, maybe. But ice? That’s niche.
As I finish speaking, several crew members rush out carrying a wide strip of carpet. They roll it across the ice from one opening to the other.
I arch a brow. “I guess not.”
Rich carefully makes his way over to me, hand out for my stick. I pass it to him.
“A lot of the girls can’t skate, so we’re making do,” he says. “We’re only shooting down here for about twenty minutes, just long enough to get all the girls out on the ice, on the carpet, and introduce them. You’ll hang out at one end and greet each of them individually.”
I squint. “How many are we talking?”
“Twelve to start,” he says.
Thirteen women are about to step into this rink and pretend they’re here for love. One of them isn’t pretending. One of them already knows me too well. And she might be the biggest threat in the room.
He points to the far end of the carpet. “If you can hang out over there, that would be immensely helpful.”
I’m standing at center ice in a tailored suit and skates because, apparently, that’s part of the bit.
The whole “I’m a famous hockey player” thing that the producers feel will make me bachelor material.
Rich insisted it would look great on camera.
One by one, the bachelorettes step onto the carpet with practiced smiles and camera-ready waves, each introduction more surreal than the last.
Annabeth is first. She’s a pediatric nurse with ice-blonde hair and a voice like spun sugar.
She flashes a megawatt smile, says she’s “ready to give her heart a checkup,” and hugs me like we’ve known each other for years.
JacqLyn follows, a pageant coach in towering stilettos and a rhinestone-studded dress.
She says something flirty about “competing for the biggest prize of all.” I honestly can’t tell if she means love or the spin-off brand deals.
Nikki makes her entrance in knee-high boots and a dress I’m pretty sure breaks a few broadcast codes.
She’s a social media strategist, all confidence and red lipstick, and her handshake feels like a dare.
Brooke is a flight attendant who winks as she adjusts her silk scarf and says something about “first-class chemistry.” Heidi, a sleek corporate lawyer with a smirk that says she’s already judging me, just nods once and moves along.
Letitia works in luxury real estate and struts like she’s selling the rink itself.
Divya is an ER resident who looks like she hasn’t slept in three days but still manages to radiate poise.
Trinity, a yoga instructor and part-time astrologer, greets me with a deep breath and a promise that “our signs are aligned.” Whitney, an event planner, gives me a clipboard once she’s done introducing herself, as if I’m already on her to-do list.
Mei is a social media influencer like Jay; she snaps several selfies and tells her fans how amazing this experience is.
I’m not really needed or wanted in that interaction.
Daisy, a kindergarten teacher, is sweet enough to give me a toothache and clutches a handmade card with glitter on it.
And finally, there’s Raven, last on the lineup, a bartender with a tattoo sleeve and the kind of stare that makes you forget your own name.
“I can’t believe I’m talking to the Ryan Haart.
” She smirks and says, “Bet I’m not what you were expecting. ” She’s not wrong.
There it is again. The full name. The image. Ryan the brand, not the man. I’ve had women fall for that version of me before. And every time, they look disappointed when the real me shows up.
When Rich tells me to wrap it up, I look around and whisper, “Isn’t someone missing?”
“You’ll meet the surprise contestant upstairs in the lounge,” he says. “Now, I need you to announce to everyone that we are going to move upstairs to the high rollers’ box. Make the announcement dramatic!”
“Welcome, everyone,” I call out. “I can’t wait to meet y’all. If you will follow me up to the owner’s box, we can have a drink and talk a bit.”
Marcus calls cut . Rich holds out a hand. “We’ll need you to wait, Ryan. There are a few lines we’ll have you say into the camera. That’ll give us some wiggle room in the editing bay.”
“O-kay…” I watch the women as they leave the ice, their attention more on hustling toward the stairs than on me. How silly of me to think that I’d be the star of the show.
I’m starting to think that I don’t know a damn thing about being on reality television.