Page 20 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)
DAMAGE CONTROL
Lucy
I wake up to the sound of my alarm blaring and a text notification buzzing immediately after.
Bennett: Rise and shine, Quinn. Time to go be my PR girlfriend for the day.
I groan into my pillow. Every single morning shift I’ve ever worked, my body has gotten up without complaint.
But today, the combination of travel exhaustion and the knowledge that I apparently slept through Bennett waking up, getting ready and leaving makes me want to throw my phone across the room.
Had he seen me drooling? What if I snored… or worse…farted?
Instead, I sigh, grab it, and type back.
Me: Not your PR girlfriend.
Bennett: That’s what a PR girlfriend would say.
I don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I drag myself out of bed, shower off the last traces of sleep, and get dressed in my assigned media credentials—jeans, my podcast’s logo hoodie, and sneakers.
By the time I make it downstairs to the hotel lobby, the event staff is already herding players, media, and various VIP guests onto shuttles.
Bennett finds me easily. “Morning, sunshine.”
“I hate that you’re this awake.”
“It’s called being a professional athlete, Quinn.” He smirks. “You should try it sometime.”
I roll my eyes, but follow him onto the bus.
The charity event is already in full swing when we arrive. The convention center is packed with fans in jerseys, kids with posters, and camera crews capturing every second. Bennett, of course, soaks it all in like he was born for it.
Vivian finds us near the check-in table, headset in place and an iPad in her hands.
“Okay, you two. Here’s the rundown—there’s an autograph signing, then a fan Q&A, and later a mini skills competition for charity.
Just smile, engage, and—” Her eyes flick between us.
“Try not to go viral for the wrong reasons.”
Bennett grins. “No promises.”
I swear I see Viv’s soul leave her body.
I settle into the autograph table first, posting a quick photo of the crowd to my podcast’s Instagram story. Live from All-Star Weekend! Who’s tuning in?
Within seconds, my notifications explode. I glance at my mentions.
@HockeyRomanceReader: LUCY AND BENNETT AT THE SAME TABLE?? THIS IS A FANFIC COME TO LIFE.
@DallasStampedeUpdates: Our favorite enemies-to-lovers pairing is officially in the same place again.
I frown. What?
I scroll further and that’s when I see it.
A tweet. A picture of me and Bennett from last night, mid-banter, my arms crossed while he grins at me like he just won the lottery.
The caption?
@HockeyGossipHQ: Why do Lucy Quinn and Bennett Wilder have the chemistry of a slow-burn romance novel where they start as rivals but fall madly in love??? #WilderQuinn
Oh. Oh no.
“Bennett,” I hiss, shoving my phone toward him.
He reads it, then bursts out laughing. “Oh, this is amazing.”
“This is not amazing. This is a PR nightmare.”
He’s still grinning. “Or… it’s free publicity.”
I swear, I’m going to murder him.
I quickly type out a response.
Me: We are not the main characters in a hockey romance novel. Please log off.
Immediately, I see Bennett unlock his phone. My stomach drops.
Bennett: She’s in denial, folks.
The comments roll in instantly.
@SportsFanatic87: OH HE’S PLAYING INTO IT. I’M LOSING MY MIND.
@HockeyBookClub: Bennett Wilder is a menace and I respect him for it.
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You are not helping.”
“Oh, I absolutely am,” he says, looking smug. “This is marketing gold, Quinn.”
I stare at him, then back at my phone, then back at him. “You know what? Fine. If you want to play this game, I’m playing to win .”
He raises a brow. “I like the sound of that.”
I ignore him, instead typing out my next tweet.
Me: If I have to suffer through this fanfiction, so does Bennett. Which means he’s buying me coffee for the rest of the weekend.
Immediately, the responses flood in.
@HockeyShipWars: SHE’S USING HIS TACTICS AGAINST HIM. QUEEN BEHAVIOR.
Damn straight.
He reads over my shoulder and lets out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s good.”
I smirk. “Told you.”
There’s one more that catches my attention.
@LazyLindsay: If she doesn’t understand that Wilder wants her, she needs to read a book called: Hockey Romance for Dummies
I roll my eyes. “Some of these are really dumb,” I announce.
And for once, Bennett Wilder has nothing to say.
· · ·
The crisp afternoon air carries the scent of barbecue and fried food, a symphony of country music spilling from open doors as we walk down Broadway. The energy of the city is electric—tourists in cowboy boots, neon signs flickering, the distant hum of a street performer strumming his guitar.
After a full morning of fan events, my feet ache, and my social battery is running dangerously low, but I have to admit… I’m kind of enjoying this.
Even with Bennett striding beside me, way too smug for someone who had to sign at least twenty romance novels with #WildAboutWilder written inside.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he says, nudging me with his elbow. “That’s concerning.”
I shoot him a look. “Maybe I’m just basking in the rare peace of you not running your mouth.”
Bennett lets out a low chuckle, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. “You wish I’d stop talking, Quinn.”
He’s right. As annoying as he is, the constant back-and-forth has become… weirdly comfortable. Like it’s our thing somehow.
We stop in front of a small restaurant with a chalkboard sign advertising the best fried chicken in Tennessee , and my stomach makes an executive decision before my brain can weigh in.
“This place looks good,” I say.
“The best chicken in the entire state—we’re practically obligated to try it.” He opens the door, gesturing for me to go in first. “After you.”
Inside, it’s warm and cozy, the scent of buttery biscuits and hot sauce filling the air.
We grab a booth near the window, and a waitress—who does a visible double-take when she sees Bennett—drops off menus before scurrying away, glancing at her phone like she’s about to text someone you won’t believe who just walked in .
Bennett leans back in the booth, stretching his legs out so they nudge against mine under the table.
I pretend not to notice.
“Okay,” I say, scanning the menu. “Loser pays?”
He smirks. “What are we betting on?”
I tap my fingers against the table, thinking. Then, I grin. “Actually how about this…If your team loses the All-Star game tonight, I get to pick the song you have to sing at karaoke afterward.”
We’d already established that he’s rooting for Team Fire, while I’m rooting for Team Ice—because, hello? They have McMasterson—literally the best goalie on the planet and one of my personal heroes. The guy is a god.
His brows lift. “That’s bold of you to assume I’d even agree to karaoke.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, so you admit you’re scared?”
His jaw twitches, and I know I’ve got him. “Fine,” he says. “But if my Team Fire wins, you have to wear my jersey for the rest of the night.”
My stomach flips. I roll my eyes, playing it cool. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Oh, come on, Quinn,” he teases, resting his chin on his palm. “You’d look so cute in my name and number.”
My face heats, and I focus way too hard on the menu.
The waitress returns, and we order—fried chicken sandwiches for both of us, extra pickles for me, extra spice for him. When she leaves, Bennett watches me for a long moment, his expression shifting slightly.
“You okay?” he asks, quieter this time. “After yesterday?”
I keep my eyes on my water glass, running my thumb along the condensation. I knew this was coming, but I’m still not prepared for it.
I shrug. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t buy it.
I sigh. “I just… it got to me a little. The whole she’s just a PR stunt thing.”
His jaw tightens. “I shouldn’t have just brushed it off.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
We sit in the quiet for a moment.
Then, he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I was an idiot. I am an idiot, pretty consistently, actually. And I’m probably going to put my foot in my mouth sometimes, but I don’t want you to think for a second that I don’t take you seriously.”
I study him. There’s no teasing in his expression, no smirk. Just quiet sincerity.
And damn it, I believe him.
The corners of my mouth tug up. “Apology accepted. For now .”
His grin returns. “So, what you’re saying is, you like me again?”
I shake my head. “You’re on thin ice, Wilder.”
He chuckles. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The food arrives, and the conversation shifts back into something lighter—arguing about the best French fry shape, a debate over whether I’d look better in his jersey or Chase’s just to mess with him (he nearly chokes on a fry at that one).
But under all of it, something unspoken lingers.
Something that feels dangerously close to real.
And maybe that should scare me—I don’t do things like this. And he could literally have any girl he wants. But for now, I let myself enjoy the ride.