Page 18 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

ONE ROOM, ONE BED, AND ONE BIG MESS

Lucy

T he second we step into the hotel lobby, I want to collapse onto the plush velvet couch by the fireplace and bury my face in a pillow. Not because I’m tired—though the travel and the event have taken their toll—but because I’m still simmering.

I’ve spent the last hour replaying Bennett’s careless words over and over in my head. You chose to be part of this. As if that means I have no right to be upset when people treat me like I don’t belong here. As if I wasn’t already second-guessing everything about this weekend.

I roll my shoulders back, focusing on the check-in desk. Get the key, get to the room, get some space from him. That’s the plan.

Bennett stands beside me, hands in his pockets, looking far too relaxed for a man who put his entire foot in his mouth not even an hour ago. I haven’t said much since we left the event, and he hasn’t pushed—not that I’d give him the satisfaction of an argument.

The hotel receptionist, a chipper woman with a name tag that reads Megan, gives us a beaming smile. “Welcome to The Grand Crescent! Checking in?”

“Yes,” I say, handing over my ID as Bennett does the same. “It should be under Lucy Quinn.”

“And Bennett Wilder,” he adds.

She types something into the computer, humming to herself. I hear Bennett shift beside me, like he wants to say something but thinks better of it. Smart man.

Megan’s brow furrows slightly, and she glances at the screen before looking back up at us. “Oh. Hmm.”

My stomach tightens. “What?”

She offers a sympathetic smile. “It looks like there was a mix-up with your reservation. The hotel is completely sold out, and instead of two rooms…” She winces. “You’re both booked into the same one.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Now, I am so sorry about this. There was an overlap in bookings, and unfortunately, we don’t have any more available rooms to separate you two.”

I turn slowly to Bennett, giving him a hard look.

He lifts his hands in surrender. “I swear, I had nothing to do with this.”

Megan gives us a hopeful look, like she’s waiting for one of us to laugh and say Oh, that’s fine! We love forced proximity!

I inhale through my nose, turning back to her. “There’s really nothing else?”

“Not tonight, I’m afraid. But I can put in a request in case anything opens up tomorrow?”

Tomorrow. I grit my teeth, weighing my options. I could make a big deal out of this, demand a manager, but I already know the answer won’t change. The hotel is full. We’re stuck.

Bennett clears his throat. “Look, I’ll take the floor. Or—” He snaps his fingers like he’s had a brilliant idea. “The bathtub. I’ll sleep in the tub.”

Despite my irritation, I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re not sleeping in the bathtub.”

“Why not?” He shrugs. “I’ve slept in worse places. It’s probably pretty spacious.”

I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. Megan looks between us, amused but wisely staying silent.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s just go.”

She hands us the key cards, and Bennett takes our bags before I can protest, trailing me toward the elevators. The ride up is quiet, thick with unresolved tension.

When we reach the room, I push inside first, flipping on the lights—and there it is.

One bed.

A big, plush, king-sized bed—with crisp white sheets—that suddenly feels like the most insurmountable obstacle in the world.

Bennett whistles low. “Well, that’s a whole lot of bed.”

I close my eyes. Do not commit murder. Do not commit murder.

Bennett must sense how close I am to combusting because he immediately sets the bags down and pulls out his phone. “I’ll call down for a rollaway bed,” he announces.

I watch as he dials the front desk, stepping toward the window as he makes the request. His voice is low, polite, patient—too patient, considering I know he isn’t the one upset right now.

He hangs up a moment later. “They’ll bring one up soon. I also asked for extra pillows.”

I nod, unclenching my fists.

He studies me for a beat. “Lucy…”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. I just—I didn’t love feeling like a joke tonight.”

He exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I get that. And I’m sorry.”

I look at him then—really look at him. The tension in his shoulders, the way his brows pull together like he actually means it. And for the first time tonight, my frustration wobbles, just a little.

“I’ll sleep on the rollaway,” he adds, voice gentle. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ll find a different hotel tomorrow.”

I huff out a reluctant sound. “We’ll see.”

There’s a knock at the door and a bellhop is here to deliver the rollaway bed.

Bennett drags it into place beside the king, adjusting the extra pillows he ordered like he’s setting up camp. He steps back, hands on his hips, surveying his work. “Not bad, right? Practically a five-star setup.”

I arch a brow. “You’re really selling the luxury of a glorified cot.”

“Hey, I’m a man of simple needs.” He pats the thin mattress, then looks back at me, expression turning serious. “But, uh, before we officially settle in for the night… I just want to say I really am sorry.”

I cross my arms. “For what, specifically?”

“For everything.” He gives me a sheepish smile.

“For what that reporter said earlier. For not realizing how much it bothered you. For brushing it off instead of actually listening. And especially for saying you chose this, like that meant you weren’t allowed to be upset. ” He exhales. “That was a dick move.”

I shift my weight, my resolve flickering.

“I hate that you felt like a joke tonight,” he continues, voice quieter now. “You’re the last person who deserves that.”

Something tightens in my chest. The worst part is, I know he means it. He’s always been infuriatingly sincere.

“I don’t want to be some punchline,” I admit, my voice softer than I mean for it to be. “I don’t want people thinking I’m just here for a PR stunt. That I don’t belong.”

His face darkens. “You do belong, Lucy. More than half the people here tonight, I’d bet.”

I swallow. He says it with so much certainty, like it’s a fact and not something I have to prove over and over again.

“Still mad at me?” he asks, tilting his head, a hesitant smile tugging at his lips.

I press my lips together, trying to hold on to my irritation, but it’s slipping, fast.

Before I can answer, his phone buzzes on the nightstand.

He glances at the screen, and something in his expression shifts. “One sec—it’s my sister.”

Sister. The one he said was going through a tough divorce?

He picks up, his whole posture softening. “Hey, Nat. What’s up?”

I busy myself by fluffing my pillow, setting my carryon suitcase on the luggage rack, trying not to eavesdrop. But it’s impossible not to hear his side of the conversation. Again—one room, people!

His brows knit together. “Wait, slow down. What happened?” A pause. “Okay, first of all, you’re not a failure.”

His voice is steady, patient, laced with quiet reassurance.

“No, Nat. You’re not messing everything up.” Another pause. “Because one situation that didn’t go as planned doesn’t mean you’re suddenly doomed for life. You have a whole, beautiful life ahead of you still, I promise.”

There’s a brief silence, and then his expression softens further. “I know it sucks. But you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. You always do.”

I blink.

I’m used to the Bennett who cracks jokes and smirks like the world is his playground. But this? The way his voice dips into something warm and careful, like he knows exactly how to hold his sister’s worry without making it feel small? It’s disarming.

He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think Mom’s gonna disown you. But even if she did, you could crash with me, and I’d make you my hockey groupie. Pay you in team hoodies and terrible coffee.”

I can’t hear Natalie’s response, but whatever she says makes his mouth pull into a soft, affectionate smile.

“I love you too, sis,” he murmurs. “Get some sleep, okay?”

When he hangs up, he exhales, running a hand through his hair. Then he notices me watching.

I raise an eyebrow. “Hockey groupie?”

His lips twitch. “Hey, it was a solid backup plan.”

I shake my head, hesitating before asking, “Is she okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. No. Maybe. She’s just… stressed. She didn’t have divorce on her bingo card, you know? None of us do, I guess. It just sucks.”

I study him. “You’re a good brother.”

Something flickers across his face, a kind of quiet vulnerability I don’t usually see from him. He shrugs like it’s nothing. “She’s my sister. It’s my job.”

I don’t know what to do with the warmth spreading in my chest. The part of me that wants to forgive him. That wants to let go of my frustration and maybe, just maybe, admit that Bennett Wilder is—

I shut that thought down before it can go any further.

Instead, I just mutter, “Rollaway bed better not squeak.”

He grins. “No promises.”

I chew on my lip, unsure what to say. I’m still frustrated with him, still irritated by the way he brushed off that comment earlier. But I also know what it’s like to feel like you’re the one barely holding yourself together. And I know what it’s like when people don’t take you seriously.

Which, if I’m being honest, is exactly what I’ve been doing to him. Acting like he’s nothing more than some golden retriever in hockey skates, a guy who never thinks deeper than his next goal.

But that’s not true, is it?

I cast another glance his way and my resolve weakens. He’s giant…the small cot isn’t going to work.

“Forget it, Wilder. Just take the other side of the bed.”

His brows lift. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just stay on your side.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Quinn, are you saying you actually want me in bed with you?”

“I regret this already.” I grab a pillow and chuck it at him. He catches it easily, still grinning, still looking at me like I’m something warm, something good.

And maybe, just maybe, I don’t hate that as much as I should.

“Don’t try anything,” I warn, voice stern.

“Define anything .”

“Bennett…” my voice comes out whisper soft and sheesh, what the heck is with me?!

“I promise not to touch you,” he says, his own voice dropping lower. “Unless you ask very, very nicely.”

Won’t be happening, I want to quip—but the words won’t come. I just stare at him, slightly tipsy from the whiskey cocktail and slightly warm from the wall of man standing a mere three feet from the bed we’re about to share.

God help me.