Page 28 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

SOUP AND SOMETHING MORE

Lucy

T oday was brutal.

Back-to-back calls, an apartment fire that left half my uniform reeking of smoke, an elderly patient who coded in the back of the rig but thankfully got a pulse back before we reached the ER. And other things I’ve already forgotten—or more likely, blocked out due to the strain and trauma of it.

My body aches, my brain is fried, and by the time I finally clock out, I’m convinced I might actually collapse in the parking lot.

It’s one of those shifts that make me question everything—how much longer I can do this, how many more nights I can go without real sleep, how many more times I can push my body past exhaustion and pretend I’m fine.

I drive home on autopilot, not even bothering to turn on the radio. I just need silence right now. I’m already looking forward to crawling into bed. Actually, shower then bed. I stink.

I have unread texts from Mia and probably Bennett on my phone, but I don’t have the energy to talk to anyone tonight. I consider running through a drive-thru on my way, but decide to skip it. Too tired… I just need to make it home. Max is waiting for me. Poor buddy.

I maneuver my car into the parking lot and release a slow breath.

I’m fine.

Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I shove my key into my apartment door, twisting it with hands that shake from pure exhaustion. My entire body feels like lead, my brain buzzing from lack of sleep, too much caffeine, and an ever-growing to-do list.

I push inside, dropping my bag by the door, already dreaming of collapsing onto my bed. But as soon as I take a step toward my bedroom, a knock sounds behind me.

I blink, slow to register it. Then another knock.

Max bounds over to the door, tail wagging.

I sigh, dragging my feet back toward the door, already preparing to tell whoever it is to go away. But when I swing it open, I’m met with broad shoulders, messy dark hair, and the unmistakable sight of Bennett Wilder standing in my hallway, holding a grocery bag in each arm.

I squint. “Are you a hallucination?”

His lips twitch. “Nope. Real. And pissed that you didn’t answer my texts.”

I blink again, my brain sluggish. “Texts?”

He exhales through his nose and shifts the bags in his arms. “Come on, Quinn.” He takes a step forward, nudging me back into my apartment with his sheer size alone. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

I roll my eyes—or at least, I think I do. It might just be my eyelids trying to close on their own. “I’m fine .”

“You’re a terrible liar.” He walks straight to my kitchen like he owns the place, setting the bags down on the counter.

Last night, we talked about my schedule—how I had to pull a double shift today, how exhausted I already felt just thinking about it. I remember Bennett grumbling, telling me I was doing too much, that I needed to slow down.

“You can’t keep running on empty.”

“Yeah, well, my job doesn’t wait for me to be well-rested,” I’d shot back, half-joking, half-defensive.

He hadn’t pushed, but I could tell he wanted to. And now, standing in my kitchen with groceries he definitely didn’t have time to buy, looking at me like I’m seconds from crumpling to the floor—I realize he heard me. And more than that, he actually did something about it.

“I need to take Max out,” I say, grabbing the leash.

“I’ve got it. Take off your shoes and sit down.” His voice is firm and I’m not going to lie, I think I like this bossy, take-charge version of him.

“Okay,” I say.

I sink into the couch and zone out. Maybe ten minutes pass and Max and Bennett are back.

Rising to my feet, I wander into the kitchen. Bennett sets a dish of dog food out for Max and I rub my face. “Why do you have groceries?”

“Because I’m going to feed you.”

At the mention of food, my stomach growls—loudly.

He gives me a look and starts unpacking. Bananas, soup, bread, pasta. A box of tea. Stuff I don’t even remember telling him I like, but somehow, he knows.

I cross my arms. “You really don’t have to do this.”

He ignores me, setting a pot on the stove.

“You didn’t answer my texts,” he says again, tossing me a glance over his shoulder.

“After your shift, when I didn’t hear from you, I figured you were either ignoring me or unconscious.

And since I don’t like being ignored…” He trails off, turning on the burner.

Warmth spreads through my chest, something I’m too tired to push down.

I lean against the counter, watching him move like he’s been in my kitchen a million times before. “You didn’t have to check on me.”

He glances over, eyes soft. “Yeah, I did.”

I swallow hard.

Bennett standing in my kitchen, unloading groceries and preparing food like it’s the most natural thing in the world does something to me. And suddenly, the entire day shifts.

Because this —someone thinking about me, looking out for me when I don’t have the energy to do it for myself—feels like the best damn thing that’s ever happened.

A few minutes later, he’s handing me a bowl of soup and a piece of buttered toast, sitting me down at my tiny kitchen table like I’m a damn child.

I should be annoyed. Maybe even a little embarrassed.

But the truth is, it feels really nice to be taken care of for once.

I take care of other people all day long.

I take a sip, and my eyes flutter closed. “Okay. This is actually good.”

He smirks. “You sound surprised.”

I peek one eye open. “You don’t exactly strike me as a home-cooked-meal kind of guy.”

“Quinn, I live with Chase. You think I trust him to cook?”

I snort. “Fair point.”

He watches as I eat, only getting up to refill my water. And when I finish, when I let out a deep, exhausted sigh, he tugs me up from my chair and steers me toward my bedroom without a word.

“Ben—”

“Nope,” he says, nudging me forward. “Bed.”

I drag my feet. “I need to shower.”

“Fine. Then bed.”

“I have work in the morning.”

“I know. That’s why I’m tucking you in and then leaving.”

I turn to argue, but his face is set, jaw tight, like he needs me to listen to him.

So, for once, I do.

I take the world’s fastest shower, and when I step back into my room, hair damp, wearing an old T-shirt and shorts, Bennett is there. Not in my bed, not trying to make a move to stay—just sitting on the edge, waiting for me.

My heart does something stupid in my chest.

I stop in the doorway, biting my lip. “You’re still here.”

“I cleaned up the kitchen while you were showering.” He stands, crossing the room in a few easy steps. When he reaches me, he cups my jaw, brushing his thumb over my cheekbone. “I got you, okay?” His voice is rough but quiet. “Now go to sleep.”

And for the first time in a long time, I do.