Chapter 6
six
RYAN
I take a calming breath and look around the owner’s suite, which has been decked out in lavish style: velvet furniture, a swanky bar, and clusters of contestants sitting and waiting for me. It’s a little daunting.
Rich is about to say something, but before he can get a word out, the bachelorettes begin to rise.
The first wave of girls to come talk to me are Daisy and Raven.
Daisy flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder as she approaches, a devilish smile on her face. I have to admit, I like her attitude toward this whole dating on TV game.
“Hey, Ryan,” she says. “I just thought I’d come over and try to spend some time with you. Let you know that I am sweet, sassy, and down for anything.”
I force myself to look at her rather than letting my eyes trail to the cameraman watching us with rapt attention.
“Thanks, Daisy. Where did you say you were from again?”
She moves closer, cradling a glass of champagne in one hand and giving me the most winning smile I’ve probably ever seen.
“I’m from a little place called Nashville, Tennessee. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
“Oh, I love Nashville. So much history and music.”
“Are you into country music?” she asks, fluttering her eyelashes.
“I’m a country singer, well, not professionally, but that’s my aspiration.
I spend a lot of time writing songs and arranging music.
I’m actually a kindergarten teacher. That’s just until I meet my husband, though.
I plan to stay at home with our kids and keep a perfect home. ”
She winks. My mouth goes dry. Does she think that I’m looking for a housewife? Because that is not my bag. Off camera, Rich gestures to me to respond.
“Right…” I say. “Well, it’s nice to meet you.”
Raven saunters over, wearing a long black silk dress, looking every bit the goth girl. “What are you two kids chatting about?”
Daisy immediately rolls her eyes. “Just getting to know each other. It’s a private conversation.”
I squint. Daisy’s reaction to Raven joining us rubs me the wrong way.
“Hey, there’s plenty of room for everyone here,” I say. “Let’s all just relax.”
Raven slips her arm through mine, smiling.
“I was a little starstruck downstairs,” she says. “I can’t believe Ryan Haart, superstar hockey player for the Atlanta Ice Storms, is actually here. I’m completely freaking out. I’ve been to a lot of games over the past few years… mostly because I’ve had a terrible crush on you.”
I keep the PR smile on my face, but my interest in Raven drops fast. I don’t like girls who are into Ryan the hockey god.
“I’m just a person,” I say with a smile. “Same as anybody else. But I’m glad you enjoyed the games.”
Raven seems to realize she said something wrong. Her lips part like she’s about to explain herself, but before she can, the lighting in the room shifts.
I check my watch. When are the producers going to bring in Wren?
The lights dim. A spotlight shines on the door to the hall.
The host clears his throat. “Ryan, we’ve saved one special bachelorette for you. Someone you already know. Do you have any idea who might be behind this door?”
I’ve got the script in my head. Smile. Wink. Pretend like I don’t already know who’s about to walk through that door. But even with all the prep, my pulse jumps when I hear the footsteps. Because I know. And I’m not ready.
My palms go sweaty. My jaw tightens.
What if I lose control on national TV? Not just of my temper, but of how I feel?
I look at him, keeping my face neutral. Of course, I know what he’s going to say, but I have to pretend it’s a surprise. Cameras are trained on me from three different angles.
“No idea,” I say. “I thought all my bachelorettes were already here.”
The host grins and points to the door. “Let’s have the reveal.”
The door opens, and a petite, slender girl steps through in a short white dress and fishnet stockings.
I hear several girls gasp or murmur.
Wren tosses her long coppery hair with a defiant flick.
She’s wearing a ton of makeup. The eyeliner and mascara look dramatic and heavy, totally out of place on her normally bare but beautiful face.
She cocks her hip and announces herself.
“Hello, everyone. I’m Wren. Ryan and I go way back. I fully expect to beat out the competition for Ryan’s last rose.”
She’s wearing confidence like armor. The dress is short, the makeup is bold, but it’s the glint in her eye that floors me. I’ve never seen her like this, and it hits me like a slap. I should’ve seen it coming.
My jaw drops. I can’t help it.
Wren glances at me, and for just a split second, I see the nervousness in her eyes before she tosses her hair again.
“Ryan,” the host says. “Any reaction?”
I want to say something clever. Something easy. But all I can think is—this just got real. And I have no fucking clue how I’m supposed to protect her, or myself, when the cameras roll.
I scrunch up my face.
Rich and I talked about playing up my feelings for the camera. I’ve been carefully coached.
But it’s hard to hide the fact that Wren being here as a contestant? Not the twist I wanted.
The host is still waiting for my answer. Thirteen women are staring at me like I just grew a second head. I have about three seconds to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to say.
“I’m very intrigued. I want to get to know Wren, just like all of the bachelorettes. I’m… um… a lucky bachelor.”
The girls break into applause, which makes the back of my neck heat with embarrassment. I force a smile and look around.
Marcus calls cut and instantly, the set is flooded with PAs, gaffers, grips, and boom mic operators. The contestants move toward their assigned production assistants, accepting bottles of water and fanning themselves from the heat generated by the lights that were set up.
A man with a clipboard shouts, “That’s a wrap on the arena! Let’s get the cast down to the vans for transport. We have a whole second setup back at the house set.”
Those words mean almost nothing to me, but I go to where I’m pointed. This is my new life, my reality for the foreseeable future. I should get used to it.
We’ve moved to the set, our first scene shot at the house. The dining room is straight out of a fairy tale. Candles. Rose petals. A string quartet tucked in the corner. A camera crew lurking just out of frame, pretending not to be there.
I swirl the wine in my glass while Trinity talks about her faith.
My first date was a one-on-one dinner, and I chose Trinity, because she seems safe. She is wearing a giant gold cross necklace and a modest-enough dress, so I figured she’s a girl who might be the saving-it-until-marriage type.
Trinity’s been on a roll since the appetizers. She’s told me about her dream of a big family and her plans to start a ministry. Is that the same as a church? I don’t know and I don’t dare ask. She says it all with conviction. I respect that.
What I don’t love is how she assumes we’re a perfect match. Like being attractive is all it takes.
“We’re both driven,” she says, reaching across the table. “People have told me we’d make gorgeous babies.”
“You have such a magnetic aura,” she continues, blinking like she’s in a shampoo commercial. “Are you an Aries?”
I stare at her. “No.”
She giggles like I told a joke. I didn’t.
It’s like she’s reading from a Pinterest board labeled “Marriage Goals.” I don’t even know her middle name. But sure. Let’s build a fantasy life together based on jawlines and astrological compatibility.
I smile politely and squeeze her hand. Inside, I’m gritting my teeth.
Gorgeous babies. Right.
I glance at the nearest camera, the red light blinking steadily. It’s angled low, probably trying to catch my smile. I give them one.
She thinks this is fate. I think we’re two strangers having a heavily-produced dinner.
She thinks I’m the guy who eats up this kind of attention. The cocky player who’ll take her bait and flash a smirk. I’m not. Not anymore.
At least, I don’t want to be. That’s the old Ryan Haart.
When the entrées arrive, she shifts the conversation to what she wants in a husband. A traditional leader. Someone who makes the decisions. A man who “knows who he is.”
I want someone who’ll stand beside me. On the ice, in the fire, wherever we end up.
She says it with pride. I nod along, but my stomach tenses.
I can be decisive. That’s not the issue. But I don’t see marriage as a hierarchy. I don’t want to be anyone’s king. I want a partner.
I sip my water and glance again toward the crew. One of the producers is watching us like it’s a soap opera. This whole thing is weird. Nothing about this is normal.
I feel like a prop in a romance movie where someone forgot to write a soul for my character. I’m sitting across from a woman who’s already planning our wedding hashtags. All I can think about is how badly I want to be somewhere else.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Wren standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching this circus unfold. No fake giggle. No tossed hair. Just a raised eyebrow and a mouth that’s twitching like she’s trying not to laugh. I’d rather spend ten hours with her silence than ten minutes of this.
I clear my throat and return my attention to Trinity. “Have you ever been to a drag show?”
She sputters. Actually sputters. Her eyes widen. “A… drag show?”
It’s a test. A quiet one. A toe over the line of who I really am. And her reaction, a tight smile, fingers gripping the cross, says more than anything she doesn’t say out loud.
“Yeah,” I say. “Some of my close friends are gay. A few perform. We go to shows sometimes. They’re fun.”
Trinity blinks hard, then gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “That’s… nice. Uh, no. Can’t say I’ve ever been.”
Her voice is higher now. Her fingers toy with the cross around her neck. She shifts in her seat like she’s trying not to squirm.
I glance toward the boom mic hovering above us, wondering if they’re loving this.
I don’t press. She’s trying to be polite, but it’s obvious. She doesn’t get it. Maybe doesn’t want to.
We move on to dessert, but the mood has changed. She keeps talking, but her words don’t land. We’ve both gone stiff. The cameras are still rolling, but it feels like we’re just killing time.
After a long silence, she says, “I had a really nice time tonight.”
She smiles, hesitant now. “Would you kiss me?”
I pause. It’s not that she’s not pretty. She is. But I already know this isn’t going anywhere. She has a moral code that doesn’t jive with mine.
“I’d rather not,” I admit.
Her lips stay puckered for a beat too long. Her eyes flicker with disappointment before she covers it.
It’s not her fault. She came here hoping to fall in love with a handsome hockey player. To win. And all I can give her is a camera-ready peck and an apology I can’t say out loud.
“Thanks, Ryan,” she says. “I look forward to spending some more time with you.”
Like hell. I nod. “Thanks for tonight.”
As I stand, I glance once more at the camera crew. One guy gives me a thumbs-up, like I just nailed a scene. I want to tell him this isn’t a scene. It’s real for her. It’s completely fake for me.
It wasn’t a disaster. She was polite about our obvious differences. But it wasn’t a connection, either.
And in a few hours, I’ll be back under the lights, handing out roses.
She walks away thinking this is a win. That I’ll keep her around. In the long run, we have different priorities. And let’s face it. I’m not worried about Trinity.
If this is what the next few weeks look like, I’m going to need stronger coffee. Or better lies. Because if they think I’m going to fall for someone like Trinity, they haven’t been paying attention.
Rich appears at my elbow with that fake producer smile. “Great date, Ryan. We need to talk about tomorrow’s group date. There’s been a change of plans.”