Page 34 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

ICED OUT

Lucy

I ’m still glowing.

It’s embarrassing, really.

I’ve spent all weekend floating in this dreamy, ridiculous haze, replaying my night with Bennett over and over in my head. The gala, the way he looked at me, the way we barely made it through the front door before things turned chaotic and hot and absolutely perfect.

I woke up tangled in his sheets, his body warm and heavy beside me, his lips on my bare shoulder before the sun was even up for a repeat performance that was slower, less frantic, but every bit as perfect.

When I did finally get up, it was to baked goods and hot coffee.

And now? I can’t stop thinking about him. About how I didn’t want to leave his bed, about how I wanted to freeze time, just stay there in that perfect, golden moment forever.

It’s stupid.

But for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe , this could be real.

That maybe I am a relationship girlie, that maybe Ben and I will be in this for the long haul…

Which is why, when I see the screenshot, it takes a second to process.

I’m curled up on my couch, Max snoring beside me, half-distractedly scrolling my notifications when I see it—buried in my mentions.

@HockeyRomanceQueen: Wait… isn’t this the same Lucy Quinn who’s been hanging around Wilder? Girl… you need to check this out.

My lips part.

I frown, clicking the reply thread.

@PuckPrincess24: Old news, but yikes. Imagine dating a guy for months and he never tells you THIS.

There’s an image .

A screenshot of an article.

My stomach clenches before I even read it.

BENNETT WILDER’S SECRET PAST – NHL STAR’S MESSY DIVORCE REVEALED

A look back at Wilder’s short-lived marriage to ex-wife Holly Wells.

I freeze.

No.

No, that can’t be right.

I scan the words so fast my eyes blur, my pulse slamming against my ribs.

Married at twenty-three. Divorced at twenty-five.

There are pictures .

One of him in a black tux, standing beside a blonde woman in a wedding dress. A quote from some old interview, buried in the depths of the internet, where he briefly acknowledged things “didn’t work out.”

And suddenly, I can’t breathe.

My phone slips slightly in my grip.

Because he never told me.

Not in the weeks we’ve been seeing each other. Not in our late-night phone calls, or while we were tangled in his sheets, or when he was looking at me like I was the only thing in the world he wanted .

I squeeze my eyes shut, my heart shattering in real time.

I thought he was all in.

I thought I was finally seeing the real him.

But how can I believe that, when there’s an entire marriage he conveniently left out?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I unlock my phone and type with shaking fingers.

Me: Tell me this isn’t true.

I send him the screenshot and watch my screen, my heart pounding, begging him to say it’s a lie.

Three dots pop up.

Then disappear.

Then come back again.

Then—

Bennett: We need to talk.

I stop breathing.

No denial. No this is bullshit, don’t believe a word of it .

Just a simple, heavy we need to talk .

Me: Talk now. I need to know if this is real.

Bennett: In person, Quinn. Please.

The way he says please makes something twist deep inside my chest.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

So it is true.

I force a breath, my throat tight, my heart still begging me to believe there’s another explanation.

Me: Fine. When?

Bennett: Come over.

I stare at the message, my stomach free-falling.

Two nights ago, I was in his bed, curled up against his chest, believing I was finally letting my walls down.

Now?

Now, nothing between us will ever be the same again.

He wants to do this in person.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because it’s already too late. He lied to me. And no matter what he says, this is still a betrayal. I shouldn’t have had to find out like this.

I swallow against the lump in my throat, my chest tight, my thoughts a mess. I can still feel the emotions of the night I spent at his place, the way he looked at me, the way I let myself believe.

And now?

I’m not even sure he’s not the man I thought he was. What else has he lied about?

My thumbs move before I can second-guess myself.

Me: It’s too late. I have an early shift.

There’s a beat before his response comes through.

Bennett: Quinn, please. We need to talk about this.

I close my eyes. Yeah, no shit.

Me: We will. Tomorrow. After my shift.

I regret it the second I hit send.

Because now I have to get through an entire day knowing that the minute my shift ends, I have to face him.

· · ·

I am not myself.

I can feel it—this weird, jittery energy buzzing beneath my skin, this tightness in my chest that won’t let up.

And it’s making me sloppy.

I never get distracted at work. Never. But today, my hands are shaking. My focus is shot.

I go through the motions—checking vitals, hooking up monitors, documenting meds—but everything feels off.

I hate it. I hate that Ben is in my head, that my body is running on autopilot because my entire brain is consumed with him.

We’re halfway through our shift when Ethan finally calls me out.

I’m restocking IV supplies when he leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

“You good?” he asks, voice casual.

I don’t look up. “Fine.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“You hesitated before starting an IV earlier. You hesitated.”

I exhale through my nose, clenching my jaw. “One time.”

“Yeah, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen you do it.”

I slam a package of saline flushes into the drawer harder than necessary. “Drop it, Ethan.”

He lifts his hands, backing off. But I see it—the concern in his eyes, the way he’s still watching me, still waiting .

And I hate that, too.

Because if I say anything—if I admit I’m off my game because of a man, of all things—it makes this real .

It makes this colossal mess up real.

And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

I just need to get through this shift.

And then—I need to face Bennett and get this over with.

Let the chips fall where they may.