Page 3 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

AN OFFER I CAN’T REFUSE

Lucy

T he wings are extra crispy, the beer is cold, and Ethan is being an idiot.

In other words, it’s a regular Wednesday night.

“I’m just saying,” he argues, waving a fry in the air like it’s a microphone. “If you had to pick between saving me or saving your precious Stampede’s playoff hopes, I’d be a dead man, wouldn’t I?”

I pop a fry into my mouth and smirk. “That depends. Are we talking Game Seven of the Finals?”

Laughter erupts around the table.

“You’re a real piece of work, Quinn,” Ethan groans, but he’s grinning as he dunks his fry in ketchup.

The guys from work—Ethan, Marco, and Troy—are some of my favorite people to grab food with after a shift.

They get me. They don’t flinch when I’m elbow-deep in someone’s emergency on the job, and they sure as hell don’t flinch when I out-eat them in wings or out-trash-talk them in sports. It’s a perfect dynamic.

The conversation shifts to some drama from last night’s shift—Marco had a patient who tried to flirt his way out of an ambulance ride—but my phone buzzes against the sticky tabletop, pulling my attention away.

I open my notifications and my stomach leaps.

It’s an email from Dallas Stampede Public Relations.

That’s… new.

I swipe to open it, scanning the message quickly:

Lucy Quinn,

We’d love to invite you to the Stampede headquarters to discuss your thoughts on the Book Club Initiative. Let us know if you’re available.

Best, Vivian Carter Director of PR, Dallas Stampede

I read it twice. Then a third time.

“Uh-oh,” Ethan says, stealing a wing off my plate. “That’s your murder face. Who pissed you off now?”

I ignore him, chewing the inside of my cheek. I’ve been covering the Stampede for years as a fan—first on social media, then through my podcast. I never did it for the notoriety. Never even tried to get press passes or inside access. I did it because I love hockey. But this? This is interesting.

“You good?” Marco asks, eyeing me.

I lock my phone and shove it into my pocket. “Yeah,” I say, reaching for my beer. “Just got invited to the Stampede office.”

Three sets of eyebrows shoot up.

“For what?” Troy asks.

I smirk. “Apparently, they wanna talk about my thoughts on the book club.”

Ethan chokes on his drink. Marco full-on cackles.

“Are they sure about that?” Ethan wheezes. “You called it a flaming dumpster fire.”

“I was being generous,” I deadpan.

They’re all laughing again, but my brain is already spinning, trying to figure out what the hell the Stampede actually wants from me.

Whatever it is, I’ll find out soon.

· · ·

Back home, I crawl into bed and tug my rescue mutt, Max, into my arms. He’s a Great Pyrenees mix, which means he’s big, fluffy, and incredibly loyal, and he’s been my ride-or-die since the day I found him at the shelter.

“You’re the only man I need in my life, Maxie boy,” I murmur, scratching behind his ears as he lets out a contented sigh.

Then, I grab my phone, open my email, and type out my response.

Yes. I’ll be there.

I hit send before I can overthink it.

The following day at work, I’m too busy to dwell on hockey, which is probably for the best. It’s been a busy night. Currently the inside of the ambulance smells like antiseptic, sweat, and a bad decision made about three tequila shots ago.

But I’m not bothered.

Kneeling on the bench seat, I hold the edges of a nasty gash together with my gloved fingers and prep the suture kit.

The guy on the stretcher is barely older than twenty, with a split eyebrow, a broken nose, and the cocky attitude of someone who absolutely lost a fight but still thinks he won.

He’s refusing to be taken to the ER—something about his health insurance, and opted to have me patch him up right here.

His buddy, another genius with too much confidence and too little sense, watches me thread the needle like he might pass out just from witnessing it.

“Dude, does that hurt?” the friend asks, like the answer isn’t obvious.

The guy on the stretcher shrugs—or, well, tries to. It mostly results in a wince. “Not really.”

I smirk, tying off the first stitch. “That’s because I’m great at this. Hold still, and maybe your face will still be somewhat presentable when I’m done.”

The friend exhales, impressed. “You ever get grossed out doing this?”

“Not even a little.” I move to the next stitch, perfectly steady, perfectly in control. Outside the rig, I hear sirens in the distance. Another call comes in over the radio, but none of it touches me. This? This is easy.

“You should’ve seen the time she had to put a guy’s finger on ice,” Ethan Park, my partner, calls from the driver’s seat. “Dude was losing it, and Lucy just grabbed a sandwich bag and—”

“Not the time, Park,” I interrupt, finishing the last stitch. I snip the thread, toss the needle into the sharps container, and give my patient a pat on the uninjured shoulder. “You’ll live. Maybe don’t start another bar fight anytime soon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters.

We release him, and as soon as I toss my gloves in the trash, I scrub up at the sink. The movement is automatic, my hands moving through the steps on instinct, but my mind?

It’s elsewhere.

I keep thinking about that email from Vivian Carter. About my upcoming meeting with the Stampede. About why the hell they want to talk to me.

I’ve been covering this team for years, and it was never about getting my name out there—it’s about the game, the team, the love of it all. So why now? Why me?

“You got a sec?”

I glance up. Captain Herrera, my station manager, stands in the doorway, arms crossed.

“Sure,” I say, drying my hands.

She gestures for me to follow, leading me out of the ER into the hallway, where the noise dulls to a distant hum.

“You do great work, Lucy. I’ve been watching and I’m impressed.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

“And I’ve been thinking… You ever consider taking the advanced trauma training?” she asks.

I blink. “What?”

Herrera tilts her head. “You’ve got the skills. You handle high-pressure situations better than most. You should think about leveling up.”

Leveling up.

The phrase sticks in my brain. When she encouraged me to take additional training last year, I did.

But I’m happy where I’m at—aren’t I? I like my job.

Love my job, actually. I love being out in the field, working fast, solving problems, staying in the action.

More responsibility could mean more time behind a desk. And that? That’s not what I want.

Is it?

“Just think about it,” Herrera says, giving me a pointed look before she walks off.

I stand there for a moment, flexing my fingers.

Advanced trauma training. A meeting with the Stampede.

A week ago, none of this was on my radar.

Now?

I have a feeling my life is about to change.

· · ·

The Dallas Stampede headquarters is a fortress of glass and steel, standing bold against the Texas sky.

I’ve driven past it a hundred times, usually on my way to a game, but I’ve never imagined stepping inside.

And yet, here I am—buzzed through the front doors, my boots clicking on polished floors as a receptionist greets me with a knowing smile.

“Lucy Quinn?” she asks, as if there might be another woman walking in here wearing a hoodie with the Stampede’s logo faded from too many washes and a scuffed leather bag slung over one shoulder.

“That’s me,” I say, forcing a casualness I don’t feel.

“Right this way.”

She leads me through the heart of the operation, past walls lined with framed action shots of the team, and trophies glinting under spotlights.

Employees move with purpose, some dressed business casual, others in Stampede-branded polos.

A few give me curious looks. They’ve seen my face before.

Maybe from my social media. Maybe from the absolute carnage I unleashed online about this book club stunt.

Either way, I hold my head up high. To say I’m not easily intimidated would be an understatement. I grew up with three older brothers and it was pretty chaotic—I learned to roll with the punches early on.

The tour is quick—too quick for me to process that I’m actually inside. I barely have time to gawk at a wall of signed jerseys before we stop in front of a conference room. The receptionist pushes open the door and gestures for me to step inside.

A woman is already waiting at a sleek oblong conference table.

Vivian Carter—sharp suit, sharper eyes, with the air of someone who eats PR nightmares for breakfast. She stands as I enter, offering me a firm handshake and a smile that doesn’t quite give away her thoughts.

“Lucy Quinn,” she says, like she’s sizing me up. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

“Likewise,” I lie. I have no idea what to expect here. This is so strange.

She gestures to a seat, and I drop into it, keeping my expression neutral.

“I’ll get right to it,” she begins, folding her hands on the table. “You’ve been one of the Stampede’s most vocal—and passionate—fans for years. Your coverage of the team is impressive. Authentic.”

“Glad you think so,” I say, a little wary. “Doesn’t sound like the organization felt that way after my latest post.”

Cue my internal cringing.

Vivian’s mouth twitches like she’s holding back a smirk. “Ah, yes. Your… strong opinions on our book club initiative.”

“Strong opinions. That’s a polite way to put it.” I offer a smile that I hope doesn’t feel forced.

Good thing I have nerves of steel, otherwise, I’d be dying inside.

“We respect passionate fans. We really do.” She nods, her expression unreadable. “Which is why we want to offer you a seat at the table.”

I blink. That’s not what I expected. “I’m sorry. A seat at what table?”

Vivian leans forward, eyes gleaming like she’s already ten steps ahead of me.

“The book club’s table. The team wants to bring you in.

Officially. You’d be a ‘voice of the fans.’ Help us shape the project into something even the critics can respect.

A small stipend for your time, maybe some tickets to an upcoming game. ”

I stare at her, momentarily speechless. Not because I’m flattered—because I’m suspicious.

“You do know I think this whole thing is a joke, right?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“And you want me involved anyway?”

“Exactly.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

“Because people listen to you, Lucy. And whether you love this campaign or hate it, you’ve become part of the conversation. So why not step inside and actually help shape it?”

There’s something slick about this. Like she’s playing chess and I don’t even know the rules yet. I don’t do this for clout. I’ve never wanted recognition, never tried to be anything but a die-hard fan who speaks her mind. But this…

This is interesting.

And when Vivian drops the final bait—something about a surprise guest I’ll meet if I accept—I’ll admit I’m curious. I don’t say no.

Not yet.