Page 4 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

THE CHALLENGE

Lucy

V ivian, seated across from me, gives a knowing smile like she’s waiting for something. Or someone.

There’s a sharp knock at the door and she perks up. “Oh, good. Right on time.”

Before I can even register what’s happening, the door swings open, and he strolls in.

Bennett Wilder.

All six foot three inches of him.

My stomach drops.

I’ve seen him from the stands, and watched him on TV dominate on the ice, but up close, he’s—ugh, he’s obnoxiously big.

Broad shoulders, long legs, huge hands, and that infuriating golden-boy charm radiating off him like he knows exactly how good-looking he is.

His dark unruly hair curls slightly at the ends, like he can’t be bothered with it.

“Lucy Quinn,” he says, his voice smooth as hell. “Didn’t think we’d be meeting like this.”

I glare at Vivian. “You didn’t say I’d be meeting him .”

“ Him is right here, you know.” Bennett smirks, dropping into the seat beside me, way too close for comfort.

I inhale sharply through my nose. Bad idea. He smells incredible—like body wash and cologne. It’s a warm, rich, masculine scent of cedar, mint, and ocean air.

I hate how much I don’t hate it.

He’s also staring at me, grinning —like he’s fascinated by what he sees. I can’t even think straight with him so close.

My brain feels completely frazzled.

Vivian, completely unbothered by my obvious irritation, folds her hands on the table. “We’ve been monitoring the response to your, uh… spirited take on the book club. And as I’m sure you’ve seen, it’s taken off.”

I clench my jaw. “Yeah, I’m aware.” #LucyIsRight and #BennettWilderCanReadToMeAnytime have been all over my notifications for the past two days.

“Which is exactly why we want to offer a compromise,” she continues smoothly. “You come to one book club meeting. Try reading a hockey romance. Give it a fair shot.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, no thanks.”

“Scared you might actually like it?” Bennett’s voice is light, teasing, but something about the way he says it makes my spine bristle.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m terrified of being indoctrinated into the cult of hockey romance.”

As if.

He leans in slightly, resting his bulky forearms on the table. The movement makes his sleeves push up, exposing his forearms—annoyingly tanned and strong-looking. Focus, Lucy.

“Okay, how about this,” he says, that damn smirk still in place. “If you read one and hate it? I’ll never bring it up again. You can trash talk me and this whole thing all you want.”

“And if I like it?”

His grin sharpens. “Then you owe me a drink.”

I stare at him. “That’s the dumbest bet I’ve ever heard.”

“Yet you haven’t said no.”

My mouth snaps shut. He’s baiting me. And worse, I want to take it, just to prove a point.

Vivian, sensing victory, slides a book across the table. “I took the liberty of picking a good one for you.”

I glance down. The cover is all abs and swoony typography.

I don’t even have to crack the book open to know I’ll hate it. There’s probably not one lick of substance in the whole thing. Bor-ing.

My gaze flicks back to Bennett, who’s watching me like he already knows I’m going to cave. I hate that it makes my pulse do something stupid.

I grab the book. “Fine. One book. One meeting. And when I hate it, I expect you to publicly admit this entire PR stunt is a joke.”

His grin is all confidence. “Deal.”

I hate him. I hate how smug he is. I hate that he’s probably right.

And I really, really hate that part of me is looking forward to proving him wrong.

· · ·

Two days later, I stomp into the breakroom, and toss my bag onto the counter with way more force than necessary.

Ethan looks up from where he’s stirring sugar into his coffee, one eyebrow lifting. “Well, somebody’s in a mood.”

I ignore him, yanking open the fridge and grabbing a water bottle. I twist the cap, take a long gulp, and try to drown out the memory of Bennett freaking Wilder sitting across from me, looking all smug and huge and—ugh.

Ethan leans a hip against the counter, watching me like he’s waiting for me to explode. “So… how’d your big secret meeting go?”

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “It was a set-up .”

His brows shoot up. “What, like a mob set-up? A romantic set-up? A—”

“ A PR set-up ,” I cut in, glaring. “They ambushed me with Bennett Wilder.”

I swear, my head’s still spinning…

He whistles, clearly entertained. “Damn. And you survived? Thought you hated that guy.”

“I don’t hate him,” I mutter.

Ethan smirks, because we both know that’s a lie. Or, at least, I thought it was true until I met him and my body decided to betray me by noticing things it had no business noticing.

Like his eyes—they’re a deep, endless blue fringed in dark, enviable lashes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles—which he does often.

The kind of eyes that make it impossible to tell if he’s actually being sincere or just enjoys riling me up.

And how his grin was all cocky and playful, with a hint of a dimple. And when he smirks? Infuriating.

I hate all of it. Clearly. Not attractive at all . Nope.

“Lemme guess,” he says, tapping his chin. “He was all ‘Lucy Quinn, I’ve heard so much about you’ in that annoyingly charming way of his?”

I freeze mid-sip. “Basically, but how’d you—”

“Because you’re predictable,” he interrupts. “I knew you’d get all flustered the second you met him.”

I choke on my water. “I did not get flustered.”

He laughs. “Right, right. That’s why you’re redder than our damn ambulance right now.”

I hurl my empty bottle at him, but he dodges easily, still grinning. “Oh, this is so good. You, meeting your mortal enemy, getting all hot and bothered—”

“I was not —”

“—and now you’re stuck in a bet with him?”

I groan again, dropping my head onto the counter. “How do you even know that?”

He shrugs. “It’s all over your face.”

I shoot him my best death glare. He just grins wider.

“So what’s the book?” he asks.

I reach into my bag and shove it at him. He turns it over, eyes flicking to the shirtless, broody-looking guy on the cover. Then he looks back at me, and his smirk returns, even more insufferable.

“Oh, you’re so screwed.”

I grab my bag and head for the door. “I hate you.”

“Lies,” he calls after me, full-on laughing now. “You hate Bennett Wilder . I’m just enjoying the show.”

And, unfortunately, he’s right.

I hate Bennett Wilder.

I just really hope I don’t lose to him.

I pause in the doorway. “It’s not like it even matters. This whole thing is stupid,” I say, wanting the words to be true.

Wishing they were.

“You hate losing. Racing through end of shift clean up? Beer pong? Trivia night? I know you, you must win, and you’ll trash talk everyone in your wake the whole time.”

He’s right, I realize.

Which is why I need to pull out all the stops. Use everything at my disposal—brains, beauty… my feminine wiles. Do I even have those? Whatever, I’ll figure it out. Whatever it takes to win.