Page 10 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)
THE FACE OFF
Lucy
M ax sprawls across my lap, totally unbothered by the fact that my phone is overheating from the sheer amount of notifications rolling in.
I hadn’t thought twice about posting a simple recap of last night’s book club event—a picture of my copy of the book, a quick Had fun debating this one.
What’s next, Stampede Book Club? —but now my feed is an absolute mess.
It was literally ten words, people. The bare minimum—but the fans are here for it.
I swipe through the replies, eyebrows lifting as I take in the sheer number of people who are suddenly way too invested in my life.
@HockeyRomanceQueen: oh we are in LOVE with the tension between Lucy and Bennett. the way he looked at her???? unreal. #BennettWilderCanReadToMeAnytime
@StampedeFan22: the enemies to lovers storyline we never saw coming. give us more!!! #LucyIsRight
@RomanceReader99: I don’t just ship Lucy and Bennett—I’m the captain of this damn ship. #WilderForQuinn
@PuckBunny101: The chemistry?? The tension?? I swear if they don’t date in real life, I’m suing. #BennettWilderCanReadToMeAnytime
@SkateOrDie: don’t lie, Quinn, you loved having him there. I mean, look at this—[attached video]
I hesitate before clicking, but curiosity wins out. The clip is from the Q&A portion of the evening, when Bennett had been leaning back in his chair, smirking as he said, So what I’m hearing you say is, you liked the book.
And me, rolling my eyes, fighting a smile. Don’t push your luck, Wilder.
Oh good Lord.
I click away, shaking my head, only to make the mistake of checking my DMs.
The very first one is from him.
Bennett: So we’re a thing now? Fans say so, and the internet is never wrong.
I close my eyes, exhaling. Then type back.
Lucy: Guess I should’ve warned you. People love a good slow-burn romance.
Bennett: Is that what this is?
My fingers hover over the keyboard, my heart doing an entirely too complicated flip in my chest. There’s a lot I want to say, but instead I chicken out and decide to keep him in suspense.
Lucy: Goodnight, Wilder.
I turn off my phone before I can analyze the situation to death.
Two days later, I’m digging through my closet, yanking out options and tossing them onto my bed, when my best friend Mia walks into my apartment like she owns the place.
“Tell me why you’re stress-dressing over a hockey game?” she asks, dropping her oversized tote onto my couch. “It’s not a date, right? Make it make sense.”
I glare at her over my shoulder. “No, it’s not a date. It’s just a game.”
Vivian had emailed me this week with two free tickets to tonight’s game, courtesy of Bennett. It was nice, for sure.
She flops down onto the couch, watching me with barely concealed amusement. “Uh-huh. And remind me again who you’re going with?”
I exhale, trying not to read into her tone. “Ethan.”
Mia lifts an eyebrow. “Your work husband?”
“He’s just my coworker,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Your coworker who you’re taking to a game where a certain tall, annoyingly handsome hockey player will be watching from the ice?”
I grab a sweater from the bed and chuck it at her. “Shut up.”
She laughs, but I can tell she’s enjoying this way too much. “I’m just saying, Lucy. You’re not that oblivious. Right?”
I ignore that and keep rummaging for something to wear, but my mind is already spiraling. So we had drinks once? He’s just a guy from the team, and this is just a game.
Still, something about it feels... charged.
Mia and I have been best friends since college, we bonded over late-night study sessions, cheap takeout, and a shared love of yelling at hockey games on TV.
She’s the one who convinced me to start my podcast, the first person I call when life throws me a curveball, and the only person who can bully me into having a social life when I’d rather stay in with Max.
She’s also brutally honest—sometimes annoyingly so—but I love her for it.
Mia checks her phone and sighs. “Ugh, I hate that I can’t come tonight. You know I live for watching you squirm.”
“You’re the worst,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“Love you too, babe.” She smirks, standing up and grabbing her bag. “Text me when you get there. I want updates on the tension so thick you could cut it with a skate blade.”
I roll my eyes again, but when she leaves, I find myself checking my reflection in the mirror, smoothing down my sweater.
I shouldn’t care what Bennett Wilder thinks.
And yet, I kind of do.
· · ·
Ethan lets out a low whistle as we step down to our seats, which are absurdly close to the ice. “Damn, Lucy. PR must really like you.”
I grin, sinking into my seat and looking around the arena. “The tickets are actually courtesy of number 88,” I admit. “A thank you for co-hosting the book club thing.”
He looks impressed and slightly curious.
The energy in the arena is electric, the pre-game warmups in full swing.
Players in blue and white Stampede jerseys zip across the ice, taking shots on goal and passing pucks back and forth with the kind of ease that only comes from years of muscle memory.
My eyes scan the ice, searching for number 88 before I can stop myself.
Bennett glides past the boards closest to us, a casual, easy stride, but when his gaze flicks to our section, it stalls. His head tilts slightly, brow furrowing for a split second before smoothing over. But I catch it.
He sees me.
And then—he sees Ethan.
I try not to overthink it, but something about the way his jaw tightens makes me shift in my seat.
“Are they always this focused before a game?” Ethan asks beside me, oblivious to my sudden internal spiral.
“Mostly. Some guys are more intense than others.” My gaze flicks back to Bennett just as he stops near a group of teammates. One of them nudges him and says something, and whatever it is makes Bennett smirk—before stealing another glance our way.
A slow, deliberate once-over.
Ethan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What?” he asks, catching my expression.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, tearing my gaze away and focusing on the ice like I haven’t just been caught wondering why a six-foot-three hockey player suddenly looks vaguely irritated.
The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of warmups, and the team starts clearing the ice. I exhale, shaking my head at myself.
This is ridiculous. Bennett Wilder does not care who I bring to a game.
Obviously .
And yet, as he skates off, he glances over his shoulder one last time.
It was an incredible game, but in the end, Stampede lost 3-2.
Ethan dropped me off an hour ago and now Max is curled up against my side as I settle under the blankets, his fluffy body a warm weight against me.
I absently scratch behind his ears while scrolling through my phone, replaying moments from tonight’s game in my head.
Specifically, a certain moment during warmups when Bennett looked like he wanted to break his stick in half after spotting me with Ethan.
I bite my lip, hovering over his contact before finally typing out a message.
Me: Nice game tonight. Guess PR really does love me if they gave me those seats, huh?
I don’t expect an immediate response—it’s late, and he’s probably still out with the team—but three dots appear almost instantly.
Bennett: You looked like you were enjoying yourself.
Me: I always enjoy hockey.
Bennett: Is that what you were enjoying?
I pause, rereading the message. There’s something there, something almost… pointed.
Me: Is there something you’d like to say, Wilder?
Bennett: Just that your… friend seemed really into it, too. Hope he had fun.
I groan, dropping my head back against the pillow.
Me: Are you jealous?
Bennett: Obviously.
My breath catches. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but outright admitting it? That throws me.
Me: Ethan is a coworker. A friend. Nothing more.
Bennett: Good.
A slow warmth spreads through my chest, and I try to fight back a smile.
Me: You’re ridiculous.
Bennett: You like it.
I shake my head, but he’s not entirely wrong.
Bennett: I’d like to see you again. Properly. No PR, no book club. Just us.
My heart rate starts to gallop.
Me: Are you asking me out on a date?
Bennett: Took you long enough to catch on.
I stare at the message for a beat longer than I should, my fingers hesitating over the keyboard. Every logical part of me screams that this is a bad idea. He’s an athlete. He’s charming, cocky, entirely too good-looking.
But he’s also read a romance novel just to prove a point. And he somehow manages to get under my skin in a way I don’t hate. He told me he thinks I’m a badass…
Me: Okay.
Bennett: Damn, that was easy. Thought I’d have to beg.
I laugh out loud, accidentally startling Max.
“Sorry boy.” I pat his side.
Me: Don’t get ahead of yourself.
Bennett: Too late. I’ll text you the details. Sweet dreams, Quinn.
I don’t reply right away, just staring at his name on my screen, my heart doing something completely ill-advised in my chest. Max nuzzles closer, oblivious to the chaos in my brain.
I exhale and type out one last message before setting my phone aside.
Me: Goodnight, Wilder.