Page 30 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

A CINDERELLA MOMENT

Lucy

T here are three strangers in my apartment, and all of them are currently working to transform me into a version of myself I barely recognize.

Vivian was kind enough to send something she called a “glam squad” and while at first, I was leery of the idea, now I’m appreciative.

A hairstylist curls and pins my hair into soft, cascading waves while a makeup artist leans in close, brushing highlighter along my cheekbones like I’m about to walk the red carpet.

The third woman, a stylist, carefully lays out a gold, shimmering gown across my dining table, the sequins catching the soft light from my bedside lamp.

Mia sits cross-legged on my couch, watching the entire ordeal like it’s the most entertaining thing she’s ever witnessed. “I still can’t believe this is happening,” she muses, sipping a glass of champagne. “The Stampede literally sent a glam squad to your apartment.”

I let out a breath, trying not to move too much while the makeup artist applies false lashes. “Yeah, well, apparently when you agree to be the date of a certain hockey star at a black-tie event, they really don’t want you showing up in your usual jeans-and-Converse combo.”

Mia snorts. “I mean, I would have staged an intervention if you’d even tried.”

The stylist appears in the doorway, holding up a pair of high heels encrusted with crystals. “Okay, Quinn. These are everything .”

I blink. “Those look like they belong in a museum.”

Mia grins. “Correction, they belong on you .”

I exhale, still feeling a little out of my element. I wear makeup, sure, and I can pull myself together when necessary, but this? This is another level.

The makeup artist dusts one final bit of setting powder on my face and steps back with a satisfied smile. “Okay. You’re officially flawless.”

Mia’s jaw actually drops when I glance at her. “Oh, damn .”

I hesitate before peeking at my reflection in the mirror.

And holy hell .

The woman staring back at me? She’s stunning . My lashes are long and fluttery, my eyes smoky and bright, my lips painted a soft, nude pink. My hair falls in perfect waves, and my skin glows like I just spent a week on some luxury vacation.

Mia fans herself. “I need a moment.”

I laugh, still in shock as I step down from the high chair the makeup artist brought.

The stylist glances at her phone. “We have a little bit of time…maybe fifteen minutes before we need to get you into that dress. So do whatever you need to do…pee, eat something, whatever.”

I pat Max’s head, who’s looking at me like even he’s unsure if it’s really me beneath all this makeup.

“Girl talk time,” Mia announces, leading me into my bedroom.

She shuts the door and hands me the glass of bubbly I’d been too distracted to drink with the makeup artist fussing over me.

“Okay… what’s going on?” I ask, taking a sip.

We settle onto my bed.

Mia takes a breath. “I say this gently and only because I love you.”

“Ut oh, should I be worried?” I take another gulp of my champagne.

“Not at all,” she says with a chirp. “It’s just that you’re really into this guy…”

I hold up my hand to stop her, to tell her it’s all just in good fun, but Mia won’t let me get away with that.

She’s seen how I operate with guys—casual flings are my norm. Nothing too heavy. Nothing too serious. Most times, it’s over before it really starts. She knows this is different.

“Luce.” She gives me a stern look. “You’re normally emotionally very guarded—and I get it. Because of your job, you’ve seen how fragile life is, and you’re afraid of getting attached only to lose someone.”

Wait, what?

Is that the reason I’m like this?

Holy epiphany.

I figured I’m just more of a casual fling kind of girl. Never getting emotionally invested means never getting hurt.

“Go on,” I say, carefully.

“And then when your mom died two years ago, you also hated what it did to your dad. He’s like a shell of a person.”

I can’t argue with that. I hate how my dad never seemed to really bounce back. Mom would want him to keep living life. He sorta…hasn’t.

“Why not let yourself enjoy whatever this is?” Mia adds.

“I am,” I protest.

“Then stop downplaying it. Be open to falling in love.”

I open my mouth to dispute every nonsensical thing she just said, but I don’t. Can’t. Because the words won’t come. Dear God, is that what’s happening here?

Am I falling in love with Ben Wilder?

It’s like a slap to my face. How did I not see this? I thought I was just in my hockey era—having fun and being young and carefree with a certain annoying star center.

The truth is, it’s gotten so much deeper than that.

Game Misconduct: Falling for number 88.

He’s not just ridiculously good-looking, he’s actually fun, smart, and sweet.

I’m so screwed.

“Luce?” she says carefully. “Don’t freak out, okay?”

I nod, suddenly weary.

“I think I’m going to go ahead and pee,” I announce, rising from the bed.

She holds my glass of champagne, and watches me with a look of worry.

I close the bathroom door and sink down on the toilet, unsure of what to feel.

Falling for Bennett is probably a really bad idea.

But I don’t have time to really process things, because the stylist is soon knocking on the door, telling me it’s time.

I do my best to compartmentalize, and finish getting ready. The stylist helps me step into the gown. The second the gold sequined fabric slides up my body and is zipped into place, it hugs me in all the right places.

It’s long, elegant, and clings like it was made just for me.

I slip on the heels, stand carefully, and the stylist hands me two final accessories—giant earrings that just work, and a delicate tennis bracelet that sparkles like actual stardust.

I fasten the bracelet around my wrist, my heart skipping. “It’s so pretty… I never want to take it off.”

Mia sighs, practically misty-eyed. “Someone pinch me . Because I think my best friend is about to have her Cinderella moment.”

I swallow, suddenly nervous.

Because this feels like more than just a gala. More than just a fancy dress and a night out.

This feels like a turning point .

And for the first time, I wonder if I’m actually ready for it.

· · ·

Bennett in a tux?

I’m officially in so over my head.

The second I step into the ballroom, every carefully constructed wall I’ve built around this thing—this not-a-relationship with Bennett—starts to crack. Because I’ve seen him in a suit before, sure. But tonight?

Tonight, Bennett Wilder looks obscene .

The sharp black tux fits him like it was tailor-made for sin , broad shoulders filling out the crisp jacket, the stark white dress shirt is stretched perfectly across his chest. His hair is styled in that effortlessly tousled way that makes him look both devastatingly handsome and just slightly too cocky, like he knows exactly the effect he has on people.

And unfortunately for me?

I am people.

I swallow hard, gripping the tiny gold clutch in my hands as he spots me from across the room. Mia dropped me off, assuming that later I’d be going home with Bennett.

His expression shifts instantly—laziness gone, amusement fading.

For the first time, I see something close to shock flicker across his face.

Then, just as quickly, it morphs into something darker. Something that makes my skin heat from across the ballroom.

He drinks me in , eyes trailing from my crystal-encrusted heels, up the long line of my gold sequined gown, lingering just a little too long on my legs, my waist, my chest—

Breathe, Lucy. For the love of God, breathe.

The tux should be illegal. The way he’s looking at me? Should be federally illegal.

And as he starts making his way toward me, slow and deliberate, I hear Mia’s voice in my head from earlier tonight.

“Be open to falling in love.”

I’d scoffed at the idea. Told her she was being dramatic.

But now?

Now, I feel something deep in my chest start to fray .

Because if I let myself believe her—if I let myself hope —I’m also giving this man the power to break me into a million unfixable pieces.

Bennett stops just in front of me, gaze burning. “Quinn.”

I clear my throat, gripping my clutch a little tighter. “Wilder.”

His lips tug into a smirk, but his eyes don’t match the teasing expression. They’re still locked on me like I’m the only person in this room.

His fingers brush my wrist as he takes my hand—steady, warm, his thumb skimming over my pulse like he knows .

“You’re staring,” I murmur, trying for playful but failing miserably.

Bennett leans in just slightly, his breath a whisper against my ear. “You make it impossible not to.”

Oh.

The air between us shifts, like the entire world has shrunk down to just this .

A photographer flashes his camera nearby, snapping me out of it, and I step back, shaking my head like I can physically shake off whatever the hell is happening.

“Let’s get this over with,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice as I slip my arm through his. “Try not to embarrass me, Wilder.”

Bennett huffs a laugh, but there’s something else behind it. Something unreadable.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Quinn.”

The night swirls around us in a blur of champagne bubbles and soft jazz, glittering gowns and whispered conversations. The ballroom is all polished marble and crystal chandeliers, filled with Dallas’s wealthiest donors, socialites, and the entirety of the Stampede organization.

But none of it matters.

Because Bennett is dancing with me .

And shocker of all shockers—he can actually dance.

His hand is firm against the small of my back, his other wrapped around mine, leading us effortlessly across the polished floor. I’m not even sure I remember agreeing to this, but here we are—my body pressed close to his, my pulse racing so fast I’m surprised he can’t feel it.

“I didn’t peg you as the ballroom dancing type,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice steady.

Bennett smirks, his thumb brushing the bare skin of my back where my dress dips low. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Quinn.”