Page 37 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

I’ve been home from my shift for an hour when a sharp knock at my front door jolts me upright. I frown, pushing myself off the couch. Max is already at the door, tail wagging like it’s his job.

I pull it open, and Mia breezes in without so much as a hello, a garment bag draped over one arm, a smug look on her face.

“What’s this?” I ask, crossing my arms as she marches straight into my apartment like she owns the place.

“This,” she says, dropping the bag onto my kitchen table, “is your solution to moping like a sad, tragic heroine in a hockey romance novel.”

I scowl. “I am not moping.”

Mia just lifts a brow, then glances at the couch—specifically, at my crumpled blanket, the half-eaten bag of peanut M&Ms, and the fact that I’m still in my sweatpants.

Rude.

I glare. “It’s called self-care .”

“It’s called a crisis ,” she corrects. “And lucky for you, I have the perfect plan. We’re going out.”

I blink. “Out?”

She grins. “Out. To a bar. To drink and dance and remind you that there are, in fact, other men on this planet besides Bennett Wilder.”

I exhale sharply. “Mia—”

“Nope.” She holds up a hand, stopping me mid-protest. “You don’t get to argue. You don’t get to sit here and spiral while avoiding social media because you’re too afraid of what people will say.”

I freeze. “I’m not—”

“Oh, please. I saw your account. Radio silence all week? You never do that.” She plants a hand on her hip. “And I get it, Luce. I do. But at some point, you have to decide whether you’re going to let this wreck you, or if you’re going to get off your rump and live your damn life.”

I look away, my jaw tight.

“Now,” she continues, unzipping the garment bag with a flourish, “this little number is going to do wonders for your confidence.”

The fabric inside shimmers under the light, a sleek black dress with a plunging neckline and a hemline that screams bad decisions will be made tonight .

I groan. “Mia—”

“ No arguments .” She tosses it at me. “Get dressed, do your makeup, and let me handle the Uber. You, my dear, are getting absolutely obliterated tonight.”

I chew my lip, hesitating.

Then I think about my phone, about the empty screen, about the ache in my chest I haven’t been able to shake for days.

And finally, I nod.

Maybe alcohol is the solution.

“Fine,” I mutter, grabbing the dress. “But if I wake up with regrets—”

Mia grins, already shoving me toward my bedroom. “Honey, regrets are tomorrow’s problem.”

The bass thrums through my body as we step into the club, the pulse of flashing neon lights cutting through the dim, hazy air.

The place is packed, bodies moving in sync with the heavy beat of whatever EDM song is vibrating through the speakers.

The air smells like liquor and sweat and expensive perfume, and honestly?

It’s exactly the kind of distraction I need.

Mia leads the way, weaving through the crowd toward the bar with the confidence of someone who has zero doubt she’s the hottest woman in the room. I follow, slightly less assured but determined to at least try to have fun tonight.

“Two tequila shots and a round of whatever’s good,” Mia tells the bartender, flashing him a flirty grin.

I sigh. “Mia—”

“Nope,” she cuts in, handing me a shot glass the second they hit the counter. “No thinking. No hesitating. Just drink.”

Tequila, really?

I eye the amber liquid with a fair amount of skepticism, but then I think about my week, about the way I’ve been spiraling, about the way Bennett has been living rent-free in my damn head.

Screw it.

I toss it back in one go, the burn scorching down my throat, sending a shiver through my body.

Mia cheers like I just scored the game-winning goal.

The drinks keep coming, and before long, the stress I walked in with starts to melt away. The edges of my brain feel a little softer, the ache in my chest a little duller. I let Mia drag me toward the dance floor, the tequila warming my veins, the bass sinking into my bones.

It’s been forever since I’ve been out like this—since I let myself have fun without overthinking, without worrying about my job or my podcast or… well, him .

I close my eyes and just move , arms up, hips swaying, and let the music take over.

And then, suddenly, there’s a presence behind me.

Not Mia.

I blink, looking over my shoulder. A guy—tall, good-looking in that effortless, I-know-I’m-hot way, his eyes dark and full of heat.

He smiles and shouts over the music, “You good?”

I hesitate. He’s not bad looking. He’s attractive, actually. And if I were anyone else—if I were the type of girl who wanted to get back at a guy by making out with someone else—I might lean into it.

But I’m not that girl.

And this guy? He’s not him .

Still, I let myself dance, even when I feel him behind me, moving in time to the rhythm, for a little while.

Just a song, maybe half of one. Just long enough to remind myself that I can do this.

That I don’t belong to Bennett Wilder. That I am my own person, with my own life, and that I don’t have to spend every waking second missing him.

But damn, I miss him.

I’m barely moving at this point, going through the motions, heart not in it at all.

And then—I feel it before I see it.

A presence. A shift in the air.

I glance toward the bar, and my stomach plummets .

Bennett.

Standing at the edge of the dance floor, eyes locked on me like a damn missile.

His jaw is tight. His posture rigid.

And oh—he is not happy .

I freeze, heart hammering.

The guy behind me leans in, saying something I don’t hear, and I immediately step forward, putting distance between us. I don’t know why I do it, but I do.

Bennett clocks everything . His gaze flicks between me and the guy, his lips pressing into a hard, unreadable line.

And then—he starts moving.

Straight. For. Me.

Mia materializes at my side, gripping my arm. “Holy shit .”

I swallow, pulse skyrocketing.

He closes the distance in a few long strides, his presence alone enough to send the guy behind me retreating.

He doesn’t look at the guy. Doesn’t acknowledge him at all.

His eyes are only on me .

And when he finally stops in front of me, voice low and firm and barely controlled, all he says is, “What the hell are you doing, Quinn?”

“Dancing,” I shout. “What are you doing here?”

Of all the clubs in Dallas, seriously what are the chances?