Page 17 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

FIRST-CLASS TURBULENCE

Lucy

T he plane hums beneath us, the steady vibration of the engines filling the silence between me and Bennett. Not that it’s an uncomfortable silence. If anything, there’s an easy sort of anticipation in the air—one that matches the excited buzz in my chest.

I glance over at him, sprawled out in his first-class seat like he belongs there, which, well—he does. But still, it’s kind of unfair how effortlessly he commands space. He’s scrolling on his phone, probably looking at some hockey stats or messaging a teammate in a group chat.

“This seat is wasted on you,” I mutter, shifting to get more comfortable.

Bennett glances up, smirking. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not even enjoying it.” I gesture to the plush recliner. “Like, you should at least be drinking champagne or taking advantage of the hot towel service. Something bougie.”

He chuckles, locking his phone and resting his head against the seat. “You could order a glass of champagne you know?”

“I know.”

Bennett lifts a brow, expression amused. “Quinn, you don’t need my permission. Be bougie.”

I scowl at him. “Yeah, but I didn’t want to be that person who takes the PR freebie. Some of us have principles.”

“Oh, right, your principles ,” he drawls. “Is that what you were thinking about when you took Vivian up on that press box invite?”

I shove his arm, but he just laughs, shifting toward me a little. The banter is easy, the energy light. It’s almost too easy, considering we’re about to spend an entire weekend together.

Should I be more nervous?

Before I can overthink that, the captain announces our descent into Nashville, and I feel a flutter of excitement. This weekend is going to be fun.

The mixer is held at a sprawling rooftop venue, the Nashville skyline stretching behind the crowd. The air smells like barbecue and something fried, and the hum of conversation and laughter fills the space.

I take it all in—the players, the coaches, the media personalities I recognize from TV. It’s surreal, being here as more than just a fan.

Bennett’s by my side, his presence warm and solid, even as he gets stopped every few minutes by someone wanting to shake his hand or slap his back. He takes it all in stride, charming and easygoing, like he was made for this.

“You good?” he asks when there’s a lull, tipping his chin at me.

I nod, even though I suddenly feel a little seen. “Yeah, just taking it all in.”

He’s dressed in a fitted button-down, the sleeves rolled just enough to show off his impressive forearms. The man looks sinfully good in a suit on game nights, but this—this effortless, I just threw this on and still look incredible thing he’s doing—might be even worse for my sanity.

His hair is slightly tousled, his tan somehow deeper under the warm lights, and when he spots me looking, he throws me that easy, lopsided grin that should be illegal.

I pretend I wasn’t staring. “This is nice,” I say, eyeing the long buffet table piled with Southern food and the crowd of players, media, and VIPs mingling with drinks in hand.

Bennett lets out a low whistle. “Smells like heaven.”

A waitress passes by with a tray of cocktails, and he grabs two, handing one to me.

I take it, needing something to do with my hands.

I don’t normally get nervous at events like this—I talk to players all the time, I work in a high-pressure job—but there’s something about this that feels different.

Like I’m not just here for work, but for him .

Which is ridiculous. I shake the thought away, focusing instead on the chatter around us.

He watches me for a beat, like he’s about to say something else, but then someone calls his name. He gives me a small, almost knowing smirk before turning to greet whoever it is.

I sip my Tennessee Smash, which is a delicious combination of Jack Daniels whiskey, muddled blackberries, lemonade, and mint leaves. But my eyes keep straying over to Bennett. I should not be noticing how good he looks.

But it’s impossible not to. He’s huge and even in a room full of hockey players, he’s the only one I see.

He makes his way back over to me and hands me an appetizer plate with a barbeque slider. “You’ve got to try one of these. Mango barbeque sauce—so good,” he confirms.

I accept the plate, gratefully because I’m pretty sure the whiskey cocktail has already gone straight to my head.

A few players and staff come over to greet Bennett, and I mostly hang back, nibbling my sandwich, until one of them—a grizzled former enforcer turned analyst—gives me a once-over and smirks.

“So, this is the latest PR play, Wilder?” he asks, nudging Bennett as he looks me over.

The comment is so casual, so offhanded, but it makes my stomach drop.

Bennett just chuckles. “Something like that,” he jokes, taking a sip of his drink.

I freeze.

The guys laugh and the conversation moves on, but I can’t shake the sting of it.

Latest PR play. Fun distraction. Like I’m just some convenient storyline for him, something temporary, easily dismissed.

And worse—he didn’t even defend me.

For the rest of the night, I feel myself pulling back, my smile a little tighter, my responses more clipped. And when we step away from the group, I can’t hold it in anymore.

“You really didn’t have a problem with that comment?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

Bennett frowns. “What comment?”

I cross my arms. “The one about me being a PR stunt.”

He lets out a breath, shaking his head. “Quinn, it was a joke. That guy busts my balls all the time.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t just about you , was it?”

He studies me, his jaw tightening. “Okay,” he says slowly. “What’s really going on here?”

I exhale sharply, frustrated that he doesn’t get it. “It’s just—this is exactly why I was hesitant about all of this. Why I didn’t want to be part of this whole book club PR thing in the first place. Because now I’m just… some storyline to people. A punchline.”

His brows draw together. “Come on, you’re overthinking this.”

“No, I’m not.” My pulse kicks up. “You don’t get it, Bennett.

You’ll always be taken seriously. No one will ever question if you belong.

But me? I have to fight to be seen as credible every single day.

And now, because of this, people think I’m just some fan getting special treatment, or—or that I’m here because of you . ”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Quinn—”

“And what’s worse? You didn’t even say anything. You just laughed .”

His expression darkens. “What did you want me to do? Start a fight in the middle of the cocktail party?”

“No, I wanted you to take it seriously.”

He exhales hard, his frustration growing. “You chose to be part of this, remember? You didn’t have to come to these events, didn’t have to say yes to the book club thing—”

My stomach clenches. “Wow.”

His eyes flick to mine, regret flashing across his face like he knows he just stepped in it.

I shake my head, my throat tight. “You know what? Forget it.”

And before he can say another word, I turn and walk away.