Page 1 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

A TOTAL DISASTER

Lucy

B lood doesn’t bother me. Neither does vomit, broken bones, or the ungodly things people manage to get stuck in places that those things should never be.

I’ve been a paramedic long enough that my stomach is made of steel, my hands move before my brain can process the chaos, and I don’t flinch at much.

But this?

This is offensive.

I stare at my coworker Ethan, who has the audacity to look excited as he waves his phone in my face. “Tell me you’ve seen this.”

“I’m elbow-deep in someone’s emergency Taco Bell regret, Park,” I deadpan, tossing a pair of used gloves in the biohazard bin. “No, I have not seen whatever you’re trying to show me.”

Ethan grins. “Oh, you’re gonna hate it.”

“Then why would I want to see it?” I toss an annoyed look his way.

“Because you hate things loudly, and it’s fun for me.”

I sigh, and snatch the phone from him as we step outside the hospital doors, the chilly evening air sharp against my flushed skin.

Our partner for the night, Decker, is already perched on the bumper of our rig, drinking his fourth energy drink of the shift.

If he’s not careful with those things, he might end up as our next cardiac patient.

He jerks his chin at us. “What’s she hating now?”

Ethan’s grin stretches wider. “Just wait.”

I glance down at the screen. The official Instagram of my beloved hometown hockey team, the Dallas Stampede is plastered across it, along with a picture of him. Bennett Wilder, center of the team, grinning like he doesn’t have a single thought in his head beyond beer and puck bunnies.

My gut reaction is warmth , because I’ve spent most of my life loving this team, and Wilder is the kind of player who makes it easy. All heart, ridiculous talent, and that golden retriever energy that has half the league underestimating him—right up until he burns them alive on the ice.

But then I read the caption.

“Hockey Romance Book Club, anyone? Join Bennett Wilder as he dives into the world of romance novels and discusses his thoughts in a special Stampede book club series!”

I blink. Reread it. Look up at Ethan. “Tell me this is a joke.” I mentally search for the date. It’s February, so it can’t be April Fools.

“Oh, it’s real.”

Unchecked rage simmers inside me. “This is the dumbest PR stunt I’ve ever seen.”

Ethan laughs. “There it is.”

Decker leans over, snatching the phone from me. His brows shoot up. “Dang. The Stampede are really pushing this? I don’t get it.”

“Oh, I do. It’s the most moronic thing I’ve seen.

A desperate, gimmicky attempt to turn hockey players into thirst traps for fair-weather fans.

Trust me, it isn’t just a book club. ” I swipe my phone open, my fingers flying as I dig up the article Ethan clearly meant to piss me off with.

“It’s a personal attack on women’s intelligence . ”

“Wait, what?” Ethan’s dark eyebrows push together.

“Trying to get casual fans interested by having Wilder read a romance novel and talk about it on social media.” I look up in disgust. “Do they think women are idiots ? That we need some shirtless hockey bro to read us a bedtime story before we understand the sport?”

My pulse rises in anger.

“Hey, don’t knock bedtime stories.” Ethan smirks. “I bet Wilder’s voice is real soothing.”

I chuck my empty water bottle at his head. He dodges it, laughing.

“I’m serious!” I gesture wildly at my screen. “This team has some of the most dedicated female fans in the league , and instead of talking about how we break down plays, memorize stats, know this game as well as anyone, they pull this crap.”

I’m seething now—practically seeing red and ready to go scorched earth all over this whole idea.

Decker hums. “I mean, I’d join a book club if it meant seeing Wilder struggle through a spicy scene.”

Ethan grins. “Think he does the voices?”

Decker dissolves into laughter.

I scowl at both of them. “I hope he gets absolutely wrecked in the next game.”

“He won’t,” Decker says. “It’s the Stampede against Philly on Friday.”

Which is exactly the problem. The Stampede need every win they can get right now, and instead of focusing on hockey , their star center is getting paid to play BookTok’s new favorite golden boy.

I roll my shoulders, still simmering. “It’s embarrassing.”

“You’re embarrassing,” Ethan says mildly.

I shove him. He barely stumbles, still grinning like he’s won something.

Decker finishes his drink, crushes the can, and lobs it into the trash. “Alright, let’s go. Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll get a patient who also hates this PR stunt and we can all rant together.”

“Wishful thinking,” I mutter, but I follow them back to the rig, still fuming.

Ethan’s already pulling up social media. “Can’t wait to see the meltdowns on your timeline tonight.”

Oh, there will be meltdowns .

And I plan to start them.

Because this?

This is war.

· · ·

My laptop hums as I set up my mic, the familiar ritual of recording my podcast settles me like a pregame warm-up.

I don’t have to work until two this afternoon, and I’m caffeinated, rested, and ready to dive in.

I click record and the little red light blinks, signaling that we’re live, and I take a deep breath before diving in.

“Alright, Stampede fans, let’s talk about the absolute clown car our beloved team just rolled out of.

” I lean closer to the mic, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Because apparently, instead of focusing on, oh, I don’t know, winning games, the Dallas Stampede has decided to launch a romance book club. ” I let that hang for a beat.

I roll my eyes so hard it’s practically audible.

“That’s right, folks. Our boys aren’t just hitting the ice—they’re hitting the books.

Or at least, that’s what the PR team wants you to think.

And leading this ridiculous charge? None other than Bennett Wilder.

” I scoff. “Yes, the same Bennett Wilder whose idea of literature is probably reading the back of a protein bar.”

I mentally high-five myself for that delightful quip.

I’ve spent years proving myself in a male-dominated industry, and this feels like a massive step backward. I won’t take it lying down.

The chat on my live stream explodes with laughing emojis and comments agreeing with me. Good. At least I’m not alone in this.

“Look, I love this team. I’ve bled Stampede colors since I was a kid.

I have been through every heartbreak, every gut-wrenching loss, the trades, and the politics of team management.

And I will defend these guys to the grave.

But this?” I shake my head. “This is embarrassing. It’s pandering at its worst. It’s like they think female hockey fans can’t possibly understand the game unless they wrap it up in some steamy, half-baked romance novel.

It reduces female fans to groupies with Kindles. ”

Gag.

I’m on a roll now. I sit up straighter and lean in. “I love the Stampede. But this is ridiculous. A book club? What the hell does this have to do with hockey? It’s a blatant PR stunt. And Bennett Wilder? ”

I can’t really rein myself in, which is often the case when I’m passionate about something. But my podcast is my happy place—I don’t have to rein myself in.

As I talk, more notifications pop up. Some fans are with me. Others are calling me a hater. One says, “What if it gets more people into hockey?”

I sigh.

I love hockey but hate how women fans are labeled as lusting after the guys. This book club doesn’t help.

“I get it. Growing the game is great. But this doesn’t grow the game. This turns the game into a gimmick. And it turns us—the real, die-hard female fans—into a punchline. And I, for one, am not laughing.”

I click off the recording, satisfied. The internet is about to have some feelings about this one.