Page 26 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

PUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT

Lucy

T he energy in the arena is electric, buzzing through my veins as Mia and I make our way to our seats. The Stampede is on home ice, and the place is packed. Fans in blue and silver jerseys crowd the stands, the roar of the crowd swelling as the team skates out for warm-ups.

Mia, in an oversized Stampede hoodie—because of course she refused to wear an actual jersey—flops into the seat beside me, crossing her legs dramatically. “So, you’re never going to guess what happened.”

I arch a brow, already knowing from the way she’s smirking. “You texted Chase.”

“I texted Chase,” she confirms, pressing a hand to her chest like she’s making a solemn confession. “And he left me on read .”

I wince. “Oof.”

“Right?” She tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder. “Like, excuse me, I know for a fact you’re not so busy that you can’t send a single text back. Unless, of course, he was with someone else.”

I frown. “Or he just… didn’t know how to respond?”

Mia gives me a please look. “Come on, Luce. These guys have options . You really think they’re sitting around, waiting to text us back when they’ve got sidepieces in every city?

” She gestures toward the ice, where the guys are stretching and taking shots on goal.

“Professional athletes live a whole different lifestyle. Women throw themselves at them. And most of them? They accept .”

I shift in my seat, watching as Bennett skates lazily near the blue line, passing the puck back and forth with a teammate. My stomach twists, but I shake my head. “Bennett’s not like that.”

Mia sighs, looking at me like I’m hopeless. “I’m sure he’s nice . And obviously, he’s got it bad for you. But that doesn’t mean he’s a saint. When’s the last time you saw him?”

I hesitate. “Last weekend.”

“And since then?”

“We’ve texted,” I say defensively. “He’s been traveling.”

Mia raises a brow. “Uh-huh.”

I cross my arms. “I don’t expect him to text me 24/7.”

“No, but you do expect him to be honest with you, right? If there’s someone else?

Or multiple someone elses?” She shrugs. “All I’m saying is…

be careful. You might think he’s different, but at the end of the day, he’s still a guy —a guy who also happens to be a hotshot pro athlete with an insane schedule and a ton of temptation. ”

I press my lips together, trying not to let her words sink in too deep.

I do trust Bennett. At least, I think I do.

But as the game starts and he takes the ice, I find myself watching differently. Not just the way he moves, fast and powerful, or how seamlessly he works with his teammates.

I watch the way he interacts on the bench. Who he talks to. Who he smiles at. If he looks up into the stands.

And when a penalty sends him to the box, and a woman in a tight Stampede jersey leans over the glass, batting her lashes at him, my stomach clenches a little too tight.

I don’t want to be this person.

Jealous.

Insecure.

Suspicious.

But Mia’s words echo in my head.

These guys have options.

I exhale slowly, tearing my eyes away from Bennett and back to the game.

The Stampede look great, and I’m already brainstorming ideas for this week’s podcast. It’s been a little while since I recorded.

The final buzzer blares through the arena, and the Stampede seal their win with a two-goal lead. The crowd erupts, fans on their feet, cheering as the team gathers on the ice to bump gloves and pat each other on the back. Beside me, Mia lets out a whoop, but I barely hear it.

Because my eyes are locked on him .

Bennett skates toward the bench, helmet tucked under his arm, sweat-damp hair curling at his temples. He’s grinning, eyes bright with the adrenaline of the win, and normally, that look would do things to me. Normally, I’d be the one smiling.

But Mia’s words are still swirling in my head like a bad hangover.

As he heads down the tunnel, my stomach twists. I tell myself to let it go, to enjoy the win and get out of my own way. But then she appears.

A blonde—tall, and striking, the kind of woman who could star in a shampoo commercial—leans over the railing near the tunnel entrance, stopping Bennett in his tracks.

I see it all from my seat.

Her manicured fingers curl around his forearm, her lips move, saying something that makes him laugh— laugh . And then she steps closer.

I’m on my feet before I even realize it.

“Where are you going?” Mia calls, but I don’t answer.

I weave through the crowd, down the stairs, slipping past security and closer to the tunnel. I don’t know what I’m doing, not really. All I know is that I hate the way she’s touching him, hate the way he’s smiling at whatever flirty comment she just made.

I press in near the railing, my heart hammering.

Bennett shifts, catching sight of me over the blonde’s shoulder. Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe amusement. Then, his lips pull into a slow, knowing smirk.

The blonde is still talking, but he’s barely listening now.

And I don’t think before I open my mouth. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

The woman turns, blinking at me like I’m an unexpected plot twist in her night. Bennett’s smirk deepens, eyes glinting with something I can’t quite place.

“Quinn,” he drawls, cocking his head. “Didn’t know you’d be waiting for me.”

I scoff, ignoring the warmth creeping up my neck. “Oh, I wasn’t. I just figured I’d stop by. Looked like you were having a great time.”

He huffs a laugh, dismissing the blonde with an easy, later nod before turning his full attention on me. “That sounds like jealousy, sweetheart?”

I fold my arms, chin lifting. “More like secondhand embarrassment . Thought you had better taste.”

He steps closer. “You do care.”

I roll my eyes. “Please.”

“Admit it.” He tilts his head, voice dropping. “You didn’t like seeing that, did you?”

I swallow hard, glaring up at him, because he’s right. And he knows he’s right. And I hate that I’m standing here, feeling like this .

He’s close now, heat radiating off of him, his post-game scent—sweat, ice, something uniquely Bennett —wrapping around me.

His gaze flicks to my mouth.

And I don’t know if I step into him or if he pulls me in first, but suddenly, we’re kissing .

And it’s a lot .

His hands frame my face, fingers threading into my hair as his lips crash into mine. It’s not soft, not tentative. It’s heat and frustration, something messy and urgent that neither of us fully understand, but neither of us want to stop.

I curl my fingers into the front of his jersey, kissing him back with everything I’ve got.

A sharp whistle cuts through the air.

“Get a room!”

We break apart just enough for me to catch Chase smirking nearby, Mia beside him, her mouth open in victorious delight.

Bennett exhales a laugh against my lips, then presses one last, lingering kiss to my mouth before pulling back, hands still on me.

“Told you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my cheek. “You care.”

I huff, pushing at his chest, but I don’t move far.

And maybe… maybe he’s right.

· · ·

I adjust my headphones and lean into the mic, my fingers drumming lightly against the table.

“Alright, guys,” I say, glancing at the outline on my laptop screen. “Welcome back to Overtime with Quinn , your favorite place for rants, hot takes, and maybe some actual analysis if I remember to focus.”

A chuckle escapes me as I settle into the rhythm.

It feels good to be back, talking about hockey the way I used to—before all of this. The book club chaos, the PR stunts, the whirlwind of Bennett Wilder invading my life in ways I never saw coming.

Not that I mind. Not really.

I shake it off and glance at my notes. “So, let’s talk about last night’s game.

The Stampede pulled off a 3-1 win against Seattle, but let’s be honest, it shouldn’t have even been that close.

Turnovers were a problem, especially in the second period.

And don’t even get me started on the defensive zone coverage—”

Bzzt.

My phone lights up next to my laptop. A text banner flashes across the screen.

Bennett: Ar e you talking about me? I feel like you’re talking about me.

I purse my lips, trying to fight a smile.

I ignore it.

Mostly.

“Anyway, one of the highlights of the night was Chase Remington’s absolute snipe in the third. Clean, effortless, exactly the kind of shot you dream about taking as a kid. I mean, the guy might be grumpy as hell, but that wrister? Chef’s kiss. ”

Another buzz.

Bennett: I have a great wrister too, you know.

I bite my lip, my cheeks warming.

I press on, trying to focus. “And of course, we have to mention the Stampede’s power play finally clicking—”

Bzzt.

Bennett: Bet you were watching me though.

I clench my jaw, staring at the screen. Do not engage, Lucy.

I clear my throat, pushing forward. “Now, before we move on, let’s take a quick break to shout out our sponsor—”

Another buzz.

I sigh and flip my phone over, screen down.

“—and when we come back, we’ll get into some listener questions. I put up a poll last night, and surprise, surprise, half of you want me to talk about the book club thing.” I roll my eyes but grin. “So, fine. We’ll touch on it. Briefly.”

Because that’s all the time I plan on giving it.

Even though the book club bit has made my podcast explode , even though I’ve gotten more engagement in the last two months than I have in the past two years, I’m not ready to let it take over. I like talking about hockey. Real hockey.

Not just… Bennett.

Bzzzt.

Bzzzt.

Bzzzt.

I groan. “Jeez, hang on.”

I flip the phone over.

Bennett: I know you’re ignoring me.

Bennett: Not very nice, Quinn.

Bennett: Guess I’ll just have to find other ways to get your attention…

I swallow.

Hard.

Heat blooms in my chest, my mind immediately spiraling into all the ways Bennett Wilder could get my attention. And has gotten my attention.

I take a deep breath and click the mic off. The sponsor ad is still playing.

Then I grab my phone, thumbs flying.

Me: I’m WORKING.

Bennett: I know. You’re so serious when you talk hockey. It’s cute.

Me: You’re a menace.

Bennett: And yet you love it.

I don’t reply.

Because I don’t have an argument.

And because my face is burning, and I need to focus .

I shake my head, turn the mic back on, and force myself to get through the rest of the episode. But the second I hit stop, my fingers are already typing.

Because maybe he’s right.

And maybe I don’t mind.