Chapter 8 #2
“Mom, please.” His face scrunches up. “Can you not?”
“What?” She laughs, and the pure thrill in it smooths the lines from his forehead. “You’re the one who’s about to give me an inside look at your dating life.”
“Believe it or not, that wasn’t at the top of my mind when I signed up for the show.”
“Hmph.”
“How are things with you?” He attempts a casual tone, but that’s never quite been in his wheelhouse.
“I’m interviewing for a job later today.”
“Is that smart?” he asks before he can stop himself. “You don’t need to worry about money. I just want you focused on what’s important.”
“They said it will be good for me to have more structure. It’s just part time. I won’t miss any of the therapy sessions or meetings, I promise. Besides, I’m going crazy stuck in this room all the time. I need to get out.”
That’s exactly what he’s worried about, but he bites his tongue. He spent the better part of his teenage years trying to will her into sobriety. It’s time to trust the professionals. “Well, good luck then, I guess.”
“Good luck on the game tonight. I’ll be watching.”
“I know.” He covers his mouth with his palm to stifle his sigh. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too, baby.”
He hangs up and flicks his gaze to the angry red bubble hovering over the corner of his messaging app. Two hundred and sixty-seven missed texts.
Kill me now.
It’ll take him hours to go through them.
And anyone who matters knows not to text him anyway.
He’s a lot better at reading than he was as a kid, but it’s still exhausting.
Tyler switches over to his voicemails instead.
Four. A much more manageable number. He clicks on his agent Jared Daly’s name first.
“You know I looked for you for a fucking hour in that studio last night? You were hiding from me. I know you were. I still can’t believe you’re going through with this, but I know, I know, stay in my lane, which is to make you a shit ton of money.
And I’m trying. Trust me, I’m trying. I spent the first hour of my day assuring the team at Bauer that you weren’t going to act like a philandering pig, so thanks for that.
When does this damn show start filming again?
After playoffs, right? Six months? You’re going to owe me for this.
A dating show. Of all the stupid ideas, this one—”
Tyler deletes the rest. They’ve had this conversation too many times to count.
What his agent doesn’t understand is that this entire situation is half his fault.
Yes, Tyler is the one who originally agreed to go on the show, but when he called Jared for help, his agent immediately responded with, Are you a fucking imbecile?
A dating show? You can barely string a sentence together in postgame interviews and you think a TV show is a good idea?
So instead of asking the man for an escape plan, Tyler argued with him instead.
Because that one word, imbecile, immediately raised his hackles.
It stopped being about the show and became a matter of pride.
He’s been called stupid by too many people, too many times.
Nothing motivates him more than proving someone wrong.
He turns to the voicemail from his publicist, Lisa Levy, next.
“Hey, Tyler. Great job last night. I told you that suit would be a hit. I’m fielding calls from a lot of interested parties for interviews.
Get back to me so we can review the options.
There are a few different ways we can play this—aloof athlete, suave ladies’ man, lonely hero.
Think about it before you call. Oh, and I spoke with the producers last night.
They’re going to send all the outfits and dates to me for approval.
I assume you don’t care. Good luck with the game tonight.
Reporters will definitely have questions, but go with no comment until your segment with Wake Up, America!
on Friday. It’ll drum up the intrigue. Your female fans are going to go absolutely wild for this.
I can’t wait! The online buzz is already phenomenal.
I know you won’t, but just check your Instagram feed.
Please. Oh, and don’t listen to a word Jared says. This is going to be great.”
That woman is an angel. She’s also lost her damn mind if she thinks he’s going to go anywhere near his Instagram feed right now. He clicks on the next name instead—Alexandru Rusu.
“Tyler. Is this true? Yetta just—”
A feminine voice interrupts, one he will always recognize as belonging to his second mother. “Is that him?”
“She said—”
“Tyler? I was just watching Samantha on the television screen, and I saw you, and— Tyler? Tyler? I don’t hear him. I thought he was on the phone.”
“It’s a voicemail, Yetta.”
“He didn’t answer you?”
“He’s probably sleeping. He’s got a big game—”
“I don’t care about the game. I want to hear about the show.”
“He’ll call back. Are you still recording?”
“What? I don’t know.”
“Give me the phone.” A little shuffling sound interrupts. “Listen to me. Don’t get distracted by these girls. Watch out for Cronholm. The refs have been letting him get away with cheap shots all season. You saw—”
The voicemail times out.
Tyler shakes his head, unable to fight the grin pulling at his lips.
Those two haven’t changed since the night they caught him sneaking around their ice rink sixteen years ago.
After Alexandru tossed the puck at him, Yetta’s warm voice echoed across the rafters.
Let him have a snack first, Alexandru. The boy’s all skin and bones.
Yetta won that argument, the way he came to find she often did.
He’ll never forget the nurturing look on her face as she passed him that quickly whipped-up sandwich.
It was the look of someone who was used to being the backbone of a family, who gave and gave without expecting anything in return, who would always be that shoulder her kids could cry on, that safe space, that unbreakable pillar around which everything else could be built—someone his own mother tried so hard but never quite managed to be.
Yetta was the only reason his life ended up the way it has.
She and Alexandru went out to dinner that night.
She was the one who told him to stop by the rink on the way home to pick up the gear bag their son had left behind.
The most pivotal night of his entire life was all due to motherly love—and, well, sheer dumb luck if he’s being honest.
Tyler pushes the memory away and plays the final voicemail. It’s from Alex.
“Are you kidding me, man? The Love Match? And I had to find out from my mother? You can’t do this to me.
She’s going to drive me nuts. She already talked my ear off for like an hour this morning and you barely even did anything.
I saw the clip, by the way. Like fifty people texted it to me.
You know, you could have just called if you were having trouble with the ladies.
I would’ve helped you. This is a bit drastic, don’t you think?
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I can’t wait to laugh my ass off watching you attempt to be social on national TV, but still.
You know I’m here if you need me. Oh, also, watch out for Cronholm tonight.
I still have a bruise the size of Texas on my ribs from the shit that asshole pulled on me last week.
Did you talk to Winnie yet? I bet she’s loving this.
Romance is like her thing. Anyway, call me later. Bye.”
At the sound of her name, Tyler’s heart gives a painful lurch.
It happens every time one of the Rusus oh-so-casually mentions the elusive fourth member of their family.
He’s grown used to the subtle ache over the years, so familiar with it he can’t even remember a time when the thought of her wasn’t accompanied by a sharp pang.
He rubs at the zgardan bracelet tattooed on his wrist. The night she drew it for him lives crystal clear in his mind.
He felt like a bit of a perve, barging into her room unannounced to find her curled up in her window seat wearing a pink spaghetti-strap pajama top and matching shorts that verged on indecent.
She had no idea how beautiful she was. No idea how wild that little bit of lace trim crossing over her chest drove him.
No idea how the sight of her hit him like an illegal check to the head, leaving him dizzy.
It was the worst thing those assholes at her school did to her—somehow convinced her she wasn’t desirable, when no matter how hard he tried, Tyler always found it impossible to look away.
They watched countless movies together, and for the life of him, he can’t name a single one.
He was too busy trying not to get a boner every time her breath whispered across his skin.
The pain was worth every second.
God, I’m pathetic.
He groans and drops his arm, somewhat surprised the tattoo hasn’t faded. He goes to it too often, like a crutch, anytime he needs a bit of comfort, a little reminder of her sunshine when his world gets too dark to handle.
What is she going to think about all this?
Is Alex right? Will she love it? Will she swoon with each episode? Will she cheer him on from the sidelines, as though it’s just another one of his games? Will she be happy for him? Will—
Stop.
Just stop already.
Enough.
Maybe this show will be good for him after all.
He needs to move on from this obsession, and nothing else he’s tried has ever worked.
Maybe the show will. Maybe taking a break from hockey to focus on his personal life will force him to open up, to let someone new in.
And even if it doesn’t, the executive producer was right—it’s a free vacation around the world surrounded by thirty gorgeous women.
Who the hell is he to complain? He’s a lucky son of a bitch, and any guy on the street would gladly trade places.
There’s no downside.
Nothing can possibly go wrong.
By the time Tyler arrives at the rink that afternoon, he’s almost convinced himself it’s a good idea.
Almost. But then the cameras start flashing the moment he steps out of his car.
And when he enters the locker room, there’s a bouquet of red roses sitting in front of his jersey.
When he goes to throw it out, a glitter bomb explodes in his face.
His teammates snicker. One drops to a knee while three more start to softly sing the intro music to the show.
Coach comes in before it gets too out of hand, but the game is no better.
It’s not the under-the-breath comments from their opponents.
Those are fuel. He scores two goals, despite Cronholm’s dirty checks.
It’s the fans. The stands are packed with puzzle-piece-shaped posters asking if he’s their perfect match.
There must have been some hashtag he missed on social media, because half the women show up in ball gowns.
Some of them throw their bras onto the ice.
During the postgame interviews, reporters won’t stop asking questions.
He gets tired of hearing himself say, No comment.
When he gets home, he scans his phone again.
Still nothing from Winnie. But another name draws his eye.
Samantha Peters. Winnie’s best friend. They spoke briefly after the live taping the other night, but she was busy with her fiancé, and he was busy having a mental breakdown, so he barely remembers what was said.
He has no idea what she wants now, but if there’s even a chance it has to do with Winnie, he’ll take it.
He clicks on her name. The message is short, seven words, easy enough to digest.
Get your head out of your ass.
His brow furrows. They’ve hung out a few times in New York while he and Alex visited Winnie, but they’re not friends. He doesn’t even remember why he has her number. And he’s too tired to care. He dictates his own message into the phone.
Was this by accident?
Her response is immediate. No.
Then what the hell does it mean?
Just a little friendly advice, she types back, then adds, Good luck on the show. You’re going to need it.
Tyler grunts and tosses his phone to the side. He doesn’t have the brainpower to decode her riddle right now, and he doesn’t want to. He collapses face-first into his pillow instead. Six months of this shit. He’ll never make it.
Jared was right.
He’s the biggest fucking idiot in the world.