The number of successful matches reported to the Mr. Match website has grown exponentially over the last months—and two well-known South Bay Sharks players talking about their success with the site on the local news doesn't hurt. It does, however, cast a bit too bright a light in my direction, and the media is circling, trying to figure out who exactly Mr. Match could be and what his connection is to the South Bay Sharks.
Fernando Fuerte is the only guy who knows I'm Mr. Match, and while he's a shitty actor, he's also intimidating enough to keep anyone from asking him too many direct questions.
My sister Cat is a little less reliable, but I'm hoping the sibling loyalty connection is working in my favor there. Plus, her lips are usually locked to Xavier's, so it's hard for her to form words.
And you know, maybe it wouldn't be the end of the world if people found out—it's exhausting keeping secrets, really. But if the world knew I was Mr. Match, the inevitable questions would begin:
- Why aren't you matched yourself?
- Why don't you date?
- What, exactly, is your deal, Max?
And I'm not ready to answer those.
That said, I'm hoping no more Sharks are going to decide they need to make a love connection for a few months. I'm ready for the spotlight to shine somewhere else for now.
Chapter 80
The Durnish Doom
Hamish
"It's on, losers!" Trace Johnson was standing, waving his arms at our teammates, who were gathered in Fernando Fuerte's rather opulent Coronado waterfront condo, lounging around in front of the television. Most of the lads on the team were there, and there were a few ladies as well.
Besides Hoss, of course.
The groupies of the moment were there, Evans and Toofer always seemed to like a variety of company in the off season, and then of course, Erica, Magalie, Melinda Isley, and Winchell's sister Cat were all there too.
"Shhh," I cautioned the group, and surprisingly, they all shut up as the segment began on HOT-LA, the prime time gossip show we'd been told was going to feature a few of our guys tonight.
Tonight we're going to talk to Trace Johnson, the unstoppable South Bay Sharks keeper, and Fernando Fuerte, often called the Fuerte Fire for the way he drives relentlessly to score time and again.
"UnSTOPpable!" Trace shouted gleefully. Magalie smacked him on the arm.
These two have more in common than playing for a conference-leading soccer team and being some of the most respected players in Major League Soccer, though. These men have also recently gotten engaged to women they met through the dating site that's been sweeping the southland—the site known as "Mr. Match." Let's welcome these players to HOT-LA.
On the screen, Trace and Fuerte appeared, dressed in their team polos and both smiling broadly at the hostess, who wore a tight fitted red dress that would not have been considered respectable work attire in Durnland, where I'm from. But I'm in the United States now, and I had no complaints about the view afforded by the woman's garment, immodest though it was.
"So, gentlemen, you've both recently proposed, is that right?"
Fernando and Trace bobbed their heads, and Trace shifted his weight, saying, "Correct."
"And Fernando, am I right that you're actually engaged to Trace Johnson's sister, Erica?"
Fernando smiled, every one of his trademark white teeth showing as he confirmed. "That's right," he said.
"But you didn't meet Erica through Trace, right? You met her..."
"Technically I met her at work," Fuerte said. "She was managing PR for the team last year, but we would never have gone out because ..." He paused and looked around as if he wasn't sure whether Erica might charge in and smack him on the arm at any second. "Well, we weren't the best of friends. We kind of hated each other."
"But when the website, Mr. Match, said you were a good fit, you just put that hatred aside?"
She perched on the edge of her chair, pressing her chest forward as she spoke, and I found it hard to remove my eyes from the low-cut neckline. News was not like this at home, where most coverage featured what was now referred to as the Durnish Doom Line. The Doom Line was the marker at the capitol wharf where the rate of ocean rising was measured. Durnland was sinking into the ever-rising North Atlantic at a frightening pace.
"Not exactly," Fuerte said. "It took a while, but the site ended up being right, and we'd probably never have even tried if Mr. Match hadn't suggested we were a fit."
"That's amazing," the hostess gushed. "And you, Trace? What was your experience with the site?"
Trace sat up straighter and stared into the camera, as if he'd suddenly realized he was being filmed. Fernando socked him in the arm, which seemed to jolt him back to reality.
"Yeah. No. She...Magalie, that's my fiancee, we..." His shoulders hunched a bit and the hostess leaned forward, putting a hand on his forearm. "We would never have met," he finally said. "Without Mr. Match. I don't know who the guy is, but I owe him big time."
"That was horrible," Trace moaned, and Magalie leaned her head into his shoulder, her hand dropping to his thigh in comfort.
"Yeah, it's like you've never been on TV before," Isley said.
"Quiet down," Fuerte said.
The hostess continued. "So did you use the site because Fernando or your sister recommended it, Trace?"
Trace nodded. "Yeah."
"And what made you decide to use it Fernando? I hope you'll forgive me saying, but it didn't seem like you had trouble with the ladies before you met Erica."
Erica made a little gurgling noise where she sat next to Fernando on the couch, and I turned to see her face reddening. Fuerte leaned over to whisper something in her ear, and her frown was replaced with a smile, but her face reddened even more.
"I was looking for something real." Fernando smiled at the camera as he said smoothly, "True love. And that's what Mr. Match delivered."
"That's amazing," the hostess cooed. "So let's get to the heart of things, shall we? Two Sharks players have found love with Mr. Match in a pretty short period of time—does Mr. Match himself have some connection to the team?"
Trace made a scoffing noise. "Two Sharks players and a ****load of other people, you mean."
A loud beep covered half his statement.
"Nice," Erica said. "Good job cursing on prime time, Trace."
Trace smiled proudly.
"True," the hostess said. "But there have been other rumors around town that Mr. Match himself might be part of the Sharks organization—a coach? Maybe someone related to the owner, Marissa Molson?"
"Your guess is as good as ours," Fernando said smoothly.
"Well, I can tell you that more and more lonely hearts around the Southland will be flocking to the popular matchmaking site, hoping for the same results you two have found. And I can assure you that HOT-LA will be keeping an eye out for more solid confirmation of the connection there. Thanks for joining us tonight, guys."
"Thanks for having us," Trace said, managing a polite sentence with no profanity and a fairly normal expression on his face.
The room erupted into hoots and cheers as the segment ended and the station went to commercial. Fernando switched off the set, and people started to rise.
"You're a star," Erica said to him.
"I was already a star, baby," Fuerte said, but he didn't have the arrogance to back up those kinds of statements—part of the reason I liked the guy.
As everyone got up and began milling around, helping themselves to more beer and snacks, I found a spot out on the patio and sat down to stare out at the impressive blue Pacific. Sometimes, when the weather was perfect (and honestly, this was San Diego—the weather was always perfect), I missed my family. I wished I could spend time with them here like this, with no pressure, enjoying the environment, just being together. My family was huge, and chaotic, and very busy at all times. That's how things were when you were the royal family in charge of saving an island nation from sinking into the sea.
And
while some of the MacEvoys might be sticking their heads in the sand, reluctant to face the truth of the Durnish Doom Line, I saw it plain as day. The country I loved might not last much longer, and that made me deeply sad. It also made me want to grasp tight to those things about Durnland I could hold, to reinforce my connection to the place I loved.
I didn't know when I'd get back to Durnland, and while I was technically in line for the crown, I knew it would never be mine. (And for that, I was very grateful. Because for me to become the Durnish king, something terrible would have to happen to about sixteen other people I cared very much about, all of them my relatives, and many of them children.) But the potential disappearance of my country made me want to preserve my connection all the more, to be part of something that had been a critical part of my family for hundreds of years.
That said, it made little sense that the king was going to hold me to the exact terms of my legacy if I wanted to maintain it. And maybe it made even less sense that I cared enough about a distant and impossible crown and a tiny sinking country to actually be considering those terms.
"You're looking thoughtful," Erica said, coming to sit next to me on the patio. "Everything okay, Hammer?"
I nodded, aware that I looked glum at best. "Aye, lass. All's well."
"You might be a good fullback, but you're a shit liar." Her long hair fell over one shoulder as she leaned toward me and narrowed her eyes. "What's going on?"
It wouldn't help things to tell her, but it couldn't really hurt either, I figured. "It's my mam," I told her.
Her face elongated, her mouth forming a little "o" before she interrupted me. "Oh God, she's not sick, is she?"
Fuerte's mom had been very sick when they'd met, so Erica was probably sensitive to sick mothers. "No, nothing like that. I spoke to her today on the phone. She called to remind me of some of my royal duties."
"It's crazy that you're actual royalty," she said.
"I don't know about the actual part. And you have to remember, I'm not exactly Prince William."
"Just Prince Hamish," she said.
I winced. Technically I wasn't a prince, but the American media had taken that one and run with it, so it was hard to shoot down now. "Right. Well, my mam called to remind me that to retain my claim, I'm to be married before my thirtieth birthday."
Erica's eyebrows shot up. "And do they have someone lined up for that? Have you been, like, promised since you were young?"
"No, it’s not an arranged marriage. Nothing like that."
"Just an ultimatum that says you have to be married by a certain date or give up your claim to your legacy," she quipped.
"Touché," I said.
"And when do you turn thirty?"
"Well it's January. So I have almost a year. My birthday's in early December."
She nodded. "Then it's time to sign you up, I think."
"What? For Mr. Match, you mean?"
"Yep."
A tiny finger of panic poked at the base of my spine and skittered north, spreading out along my ribs. "No thank you," I said, as politely as I could. "Afraid it's not for me."
"Finding your soulmate is for everyone," she said, just as Max emerged onto the patio, looking immediately invested in our conversation.
"Who's looking for a soulmate now?" he asked, looking between us and settling on me. "Hammer? Really?"
I stood, finishing my beer in a long gulp. "Nope. Not even a little bit." Case closed, I walked away, heading in to get another beer and hoping Erica wouldn't share everything she'd just learned with Max, but knowing she probably would. Erica was a sweet lass, but there was one thing certain about the Johnson twins: neither of them could keep a secret to save their lives. I strolled inside, hoping to turn the tide of conversation to something less personal and less potentially humiliating. Because while I might have been a star footballer and a decent-looking chap, especially when I wore my tartan, I didn't need anyone to know exactly what else I was. A man who had already found his soulmate. And lost her.
And an almost thirty-year-old male virgin.
Chapter 81
Yoga and Dark Tie the Knot
Sophie
"Let me get this completely clear," I said in as delicate a voice as I could muster. If I'd learned one thing working in the wedding industry in the United States, it was that brides could be skittish. Like horses. They would seem perfectly content and calm one second, but a false move or a wrong word, and they'd spook. And then you'd have problems. "The cake you're imagining will be six tiers, and you want it divided in color down the exact center—one half green to represent the verdant and living nature of your ... wait, I wrote it down so I'd get it exactly right." I scanned my notes. "Your growing love. And that half should be decorated with vines and flowers. And the other half will be pure black, to represent the darkness within each of us?"
The bride's face remained serene as she nodded. Her dark hair was pulled back into a low bun that made her slim neck look even longer and more graceful than it was. I'd been enchanted by Felicity Cooke when she'd first come into the shop where I worked to discuss her wedding. She was a yoga teacher, and very open and optimistic and bright. But she was marrying a man I would never have chosen for her—Arlo Anderson, who had evidently spent more years in darkened rooms reading Stephen King and playing Dungeons and Dragons than most people were comfortable admitting. The dark and light of their desired cake actually fit them very well. It was just a bit unconventional.
"Don't forget the blood," Arlo added cheerfully. He wanted bright red layers of frosting (made with raspberry) between the layers of delicate sponge in the top layers, and a trickle of red royal icing dripping from the black side of the cake. I was glad they were going to forgo the traditional couple atop the pastry, or the blood trickling down from where the little couple stood might look like the signs of some kind of unfortunate accident. Or the beginnings of a Satanic ritual.
"Yes," I said, forcing a smile at the couple. "Okay, well, most of this is absolutely achievable. The only thing I'm a teensy little bit concerned about is—"
"May I just ask," Felicity interrupted in her smooth calm voice. "I've been wondering for a while. Where on earth is that adorable accent from? It's like...Scottish?"
I laughed. "I get that a lot. No, not Scotland, though not far from there. I'm from a country most have never heard of. Durnland."
"Not a real place," Arlo said definitively, wiping out my homeland and everyone I'd ever known one swift declaration. In my head I saw my small island home vanish beneath the waves of the North Atlantic. It would be happening soon enough if everything they said about the Durnish Doom Line was to be believed.
"Well, my family would beg ta' differ," I assured him. "It's just a wee island in the North Atlantic."
Felicity tittered pleasantly at my use of the word "wee." I might have been playing up the brogue just a touch in defense of my homeland.
Arlo snorted as if he still didn't believe me. Not that it mattered.
"So six layers, you see, is quite a lot. Most cakes we do have three or four at a maximum. It's a question of stability, really."
"Yes, but there's really no getting around it," Felicity said, spreading her hands in front of her as if this was out of her control. "We met on June sixth, see? And we are getting married exactly six years after that date."
I was surprised they'd dated so long. Both because I would have imagined Felicity would have given up on this grumpy Gus sooner, and because most people seemed to know within a year or so whether things were meant to be. I liked the idea of a long engagement though, it was worth making sure.
"That's lovely," I told her. "How did you meet?"
"Well, that was before Mr. Match," she laughed. "So we met the old fashioned way. Through friends."
I nodded. "Okay, well, what if we had the layers offset?" I drew a quick sketch of a cake that was built on a series of platforms, forming a gentle curve around a center pillar, which would add stability. "Like this?" I d
ug through my sample book to find a similar structure I'd made before. "That way the the stability comes from the actual construction and doesn't have to be built into the cake itself. I'm confident about building up four tiers, but once you're moving a cake around town, I'm not sure six will hold up."
Felicity was nodding, but Arlo was squinting at me. "Maybe we need a better cake maker," he suggested.
Felicity whipped him in the shoulder with the back of her hand, and then giggled. "She's the best," she whispered, a pleading look in her eyes. "That's perfect," she said, conceding the point.
"Lovely." I input the final details into the order form. "I'll have a 3D model of the design for you to see next week, and you've already chosen flavors, so I think we're all set."
"I can't believe we have to pay in installments for a cake," Arlo complained, more to his bride than to me.
He had a point. My cakes were ridiculously expensive. It shocked me what I could charge here for a single cake, but weddings in the States were a bit of a different affair than they were at home in Durnland. Not that I would ever be involved in one of those. I planned to stay here, meet the man of my dreams—or at least the next man of my dreams because I'd let the first one get away when I was too young to do anything about it—and live happily ever after in a place that isn't sinking.
The couple departed, and Anna, my partner, began cackling from the back. "Just be glad he doesn't want a dragon cake!" She pointed at the tiny fondant dragons she had been making for her latest client.
"I like dragons," I said. "I'm less sure about blood on a wedding cake. Seems a bit grim." I walked to the back and put my notebook on the long counter. Our shop was tiny, but it was bright and sunny and situated perfectly on a busy block in downtown La Jolla, next to a bridal store. The kitchen was the biggest draw for Anna and me, besides the location. We could do all the baking and assembly here, and we kept a little display case up front full of mini cakes for off-the-street shoppers or couples who tasted something they wanted to take home. It was perfect, if a little ironic since neither Anna or I had any hopes of getting married any time soon.
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 42
