Page 2 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

ALL IN A DAY’S WORK

Bennett

I drop into the chair in the team’s media room, drumming my fingers against the conference table as Vivian Carter, the Stampede’s head of PR, slides a folder across to me. My agent, Drew, sits beside her, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Alright, Wilder,” Vivian says, steepling her fingers. “Here’s what we need from you for the book club rollout.”

I grin, rubbing my hands together. “Book club. Love it. Let’s get into it.”

Drew sighs. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?” I lean back, stretching my arms over my head. “A man of culture? A forward thinker? A player who gives a damn about the game and growing the fan base?”

“Painfully enthusiastic,” he mutters.

Vivian ignores him and flips open her folder. “As you know, our aim is to boost fan engagement, especially with growing our female audience. We thought this would be a brilliant marketing move, but so far, the response so far is… mixed.”

“Yeah?” I arch a brow.

I can’t say I expected that. This is like the least controversial thing I’ve done.

That beer commercial caught unexpected flack because some conservative mom’s group thought an athlete who kids look up to shouldn’t be pushing alcohol …

which I kind of got, but this is literally reading books—talk about harmless.

When they first pitched me the idea, I was happy to go along with it—free books, happy fans, and no downside, right? Now, I wait for her to continue as an uneasy feeling settles inside me.

She purses her lips. “It’s viral, so that’s a win. But we’ve got the usual ‘hockey isn’t for this’ crowd, plus some romance fans thrilled about it, and then—” She taps a fingernail on the folder. “—some of the hardcore Stampede fans who feel like this is a cheap PR stunt.”

“Oof.” I put a hand to my chest. “Right in the heart.”

Vivian doesn’t smile, but I swear I see the ghost of one. “Look, we know this is outside the usual playbook, but it’s a solid opportunity to bring in new fans. And you’re the guy for it.”

“Damn right, I am.” I smirk. “What do you need from me?”

Vivian pulls out a stack of books and sets them in front of me. “We’ll be filming some promo videos—nothing too complicated. Just you talking about the club, inviting fans to join, maybe holding up a book or two. You don’t actually have to read them, just—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I hold up a hand. “Did you just say I don’t have to read them?”

Drew groans. “Bennett—”

I grab the top book and flip it over, skimming the back cover. “Of course, I’m reading them.”

Vivian blinks. “I mean… that’s great, if you want to, but it’s not necessary.”

“It’s absolutely necessary.” I gesture to the pile. “If I’m putting my face on this, I need to know what I’m talking about. Plus, what if I end up loving them?”

Drew pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re really gonna do this?”

“Dude, I grew up with two sisters.” I smirk. “I’ve read The Hunger Games like six times.”

Not to mention Twilight , and more romantasy than I care to remember.

Vivian exhales like she wasn’t expecting this to be so easy.

“Well, that’s… great.” She keeps saying that word—like if she says it enough times, everything magically will be.

She taps her pen against the folder. “You’ll also have some social media obligations—tweets, Instagram posts, maybe a TikTok or two—”

“Oh, I’m terrible at TikTok,” I admit. “But I’ll give it a shot.”

Vivian nods. “Good. We also might have you appear at an in-person event once the club gets rolling, maybe discuss a book with a panel or—”

“Love it. Sign me up.”

Drew lets out a defeated sigh. “Jeez Wilder.”

“Come on, man.” I nudge him. “You should read one with me.”

“Absolutely not.” He frowns at me.

Okay then…

But hey, you don’t get to be the league’s golden boy without doing a few extras.

Hopefully all this goodwill I’m building will help me at contract negotiation time.

Not that that’s the only reason I’m doing this.

Sure, quid pro quo is great and all, and I meant what I told Vivian about growing the female fanbase—I think that’s cool as hell, I’m all for it.

Vivian, looking pleased despite herself, closes the folder. “Alright, then. I’ll send you the details for the video shoot. Try not to break your face in the meantime.”

“No promises,” I say cheerfully, grabbing my stack of books.

As I leave the room, I flip through the pages of the one on top, already wondering if I should start a highlight reel on my stories. Who knows? Maybe I’ll actually be good at this.

The rest of the day passes with a team skate and a quick workout, followed by a long shower. I’m starving by the time I make it home.

I manage to open the door to my apartment with my arms full of books and a bag of takeout. “Chase! You home?”

There’s a groan from the couch, then Chase Remington, my best friend, roommate, and favorite grumpy bastard, sits up. His hair is a mess, and there’s an indent on his cheek from where he must’ve passed out on the cushions. “Why are you yelling?”

“Why are you napping in the middle of the day?” I drop my books onto the coffee table and shove a takeout container at him. “Here.”

“I got cross-checked in practice, man,” he mutters, rubbing his ribs. “I deserve rest.”

“Fair enough.” I plop down next to him.

“What’s this?” he asks, opening the box of takeout to peek inside.

“Your favorite.”

It’s chicken pad thai—both our favorites. His, no spice, mine, medium spice. We both love our local hole-in-the-wall place and eat there at least once a week.

Flipping open my food, I dig in. “Oh, by the way, I’m a literary icon now.”

He gives me a flat look, his mouth full of noodles. “What?”

I gesture to the stack of books. “I’m the face of the Stampede Book Club.”

His stare deepens. “I’m sorry, did you get hit in the head today?”

I shove a forkful of food into my mouth, grinning. “Nope. PR asked, I said yes. I’m a man of the people, Chase.”

“You’re a man of being too damn agreeable,” he mutters, then snags his phone off the table. “Wait—holy sh—.” He turns the screen to me, showing a trending topic.

#BennettWilderCanReadToMeAnytime

I grin. “Hell yeah.”

“Wait… .” He scrolls down. “Dude, have you seen this?”

I lean over, reading aloud. “Some fan account is pissed about the book club… wait, no. Not some fan account. The fan account.” I squint at the profile. Overtime with Quinn . “Why does that sound familiar?”

Chase exhales. “Because she’s basically the queen of Stampede fans. Podcast, blog, social media. Knows everything about the team.”

“Oh.” I perk up. “I should reach out.”

“ No .” He shakes his head, scrolling again. “Because she’s currently ripping you a new one.” He clicks a link, and suddenly, a video plays.

A woman sits in front of a microphone, eyebrows furrowed, blue eyes practically on fire. Her long golden-brown hair is up high in a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing a royal blue Stampede hoodie—but there’s nothing cozy about her tone.

“Let’s be clear,” she says, voice sharp. “I love the Stampede. But this? This is ridiculous. A book club? What the hell does this have to do with hockey?”

Chase snorts. “Ouch.”

I hold up a finger. “Maybe she comes around.”

The woman—Lucy, according to her username—continues. “It’s a blatant PR stunt. And the worst part? They picked Bennett freaking Wilder as the face of it.”

My eyebrows shoot up.

“Look, I like Wilder fine,” Lucy says, shrugging. “He’s a great player. But if they wanted to do this, why not pick someone who actually reads ? We all know he’s just going to hold up a book, grin for the camera, and call it a day.”

Chase howls with laughter. “Holy shit, bro. She hates you.”

I’m too focused on the screen, because something weird is happening in my chest. Not anger, exactly. Not even annoyance.

Fascination.

“She doesn’t even know me,” I mutter, my food now forgotten.

“She thinks she does,” Chase says, still laughing. “And she’s dragging you to hell, my guy.”

I pull out my phone and type her handle into the search bar. Her profile pops up immediately, filled with team updates, game analysis, and clips from her podcast. I click one at random.

“…the problem isn’t that hockey players are getting into books. That’s great . The problem is that this feels fake. I want authenticity. If Wilder proves me wrong? Fine. But until then…” She shrugs. “#LucyIsRight.”

I blink. “That’s a thing?”

Chase is already laughing again, flipping his phone toward me. #LucyIsRight is trending, filled with fans debating the book club. But right underneath it?

#BennettWilderCanReadToMeAnytime

I grin. “Okay, but look at my hashtag.” I hold out my phone to show him, strangely proud.

“That’s just because you have a nice face.”

“A great face.” I lean back. “Man, she’s really coming for me, huh?”

“You sound excited .” Chase frowns. “You should be mad.”

I scratch my jaw. “I think I want to prove her wrong.”

He chuckles. “You’re about to be obsessed with her, aren’t you?”

I don’t answer, because no comment .

“She is pretty cute,” he says, studying his phone.

That’s beside the point.

Maybe I can’t stand the idea that someone doesn’t like me. Maybe I just don’t like haters on principle. Or … maybe, maybe Chase is right.

This girl Lucy is very pretty—objectively so.

She has striking blue eyes and natural confidence—like she’s always on the verge of saying something sharp, or smart, or devastatingly funny.

I replay her video, watching the way her eyes light up when she talks about the team, even through her frustration. I’m supposed to be annoyed, but all I can think is— she really loves hockey .

And I love that.

I smirk at Chase. “Let’s just say she has my attention.”

· · ·

Two days later, I sink into the hotel bed, muscles aching in that satisfying way after a hard-fought game.

The win should have me riding a high, but instead, I’m staring at my tablet, barely paying attention to the post-game recap playing muted on the TV.

My inbox is full—PR updates, media requests, a reminder from my agent about a charity event coming up—but my thumb hovers over the notification that’s really been eating at me.

Lucy Quinn posted a new video.

I tap it before I can think better of it.

She’s sitting cross-legged on her couch, a worn Stampede sweatshirt slouching off one shoulder, hair piled into a messy knot on top of her head.

Her dog—Max, according to my very recent and possibly obsessive deep dive—snoozes at her side, and she absentmindedly scratches between his ears while she talks.

“No, I don’t regret anything I said,” she announces, voice sharp with conviction.

“This book club stunt is still ridiculous. But let’s be clear—I don’t hate Bennett Wilder.

” She pauses, lips curving like she knows exactly what kind of chaos that little disclaimer is about to unleash.

“I just don’t think this is the best use of team resources. ”

I snort. Hell of a backhanded compliment.

I scroll further, skimming past game breakdowns, roster hot takes, and the occasional personal post buried between her hockey content. She’s been running this account for years. She’s not just a casual fan—she actually knows the sport, understands it in a way most people don’t. I’m impressed.

I watch another video. Then another. At some point, I realize I’ve been at this for almost an hour.

I scrub a hand down my face, dropping the tablet onto my chest. “Shit.”

This was supposed to be a quick check-in. See what the latest chatter was, maybe gauge how bad the backlash is. But instead, I’ve been sitting here, scrolling through Lucy Quinn’s entire existence like some kind of creep.

I glance at my phone on the nightstand. For half a second, I consider texting Chase, just to get roasted back into reality. Instead, I sigh, shove my tablet aside, and flip onto my stomach.

I need to sleep. I need to focus on actual hockey.

And I definitely need to stop thinking about Lucy Quinn.