Page 40 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)
PLOT TWIST, BABY
Bennett
T he game is brutal.
Not in a physical, fists-flying, gloves-off kind of way—though there’s been plenty of that too—but in a way that feels like I’m fighting against something invisible. Something I can’t pin to the boards or skate away from.
My mind won’t shut up. It hasn’t in weeks.
I shove down the frustration, gripping my stick tighter as I rush down the ice. Chase is in position, calling for the pass, but I don’t take it. I’m not thinking, just moving. Cutting through the neutral zone, ripping a shot on goal that’s too wide, too fast—wrong.
The puck slams into the boards. The groan from the crowd is a sharp, disappointed wave. Chase shoots me a look, one that says What the hell, man? but I don’t respond.
Because I already know.
I’m playing like shit.
I get back on the bench, jaw locked as I rip my helmet off. I brace my forearms on my knees and try to catch my breath, but all I can see—all I can think about—is Lucy.
I don’t know if she’s watching. Can’t let myself think about that right now. I grab the water bottle in front of me and squeeze a stream of icy electrolyte mix into my mouth.
I play harder. Hit a little too rough, shove when I don’t need to, take a penalty I probably shouldn’t. Coach yells at me to get my head on straight, but I can’t.
The final buzzer sounds, and I barely register that we won. It doesn’t feel like it.
I skate through the handshake line on autopilot, my body exhausted, but my brain still running in circles. My chest is a mess of emotions I don’t have the energy to name.
And then—post-game interviews.
I’m not in the mood, but it’s my last obligation before I can get the hell out of here. I tug my hat lower over my forehead and answer questions the way I always do—flat, easy, neutral.
Until the reporter shifts gears.
“So, Wilder,” he says, leaning into the mic. “You and Lucy Quinn had one of the most unexpected rivalries of the season. You were teasing her on social media, then defending romance novels, then… well, I think fans started rooting for something else entirely.”
There’s a murmur of laughter from the press. I keep my expression unreadable, even as my gut tightens.
He grins, glancing at his notes. “A lot of people have been wondering—what’s the deal with #QuinnWilder these days?”
Silence stretches for half a second too long.
I could brush it off. Dodge the question, laugh it away. But I’m so tired. Tired of pretending she doesn’t still own every inch of my stupid heart.
So I grip the mic a little tighter, meet the camera head-on.
“If you had told me at the start of the season that I’d be answering questions about Lucy Quinn instead of my shot percentage, I’d have called you crazy.
But here we are.” There’s a small chuckle from the press in the room.
But I’m not finished. “And I’ve gotta say…
my time spent with her has been one of my favorite parts of the season.
She’s got the best hockey takes in the game, a mouth that could start wars, and somehow, she still put up with me. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
The words settle into the room, quiet and charged. A direct hit, right where I intended. The reporters blink. The PR guy shifts in his seat.
But I don’t regret it.
Lucy has taught me something—honesty really is the best policy. I’m not afraid to put it out there.
When I rise to my feet and exit the media room, I don’t expect to see her.
Standing just outside the locker room, looking unsure, hopeful, nervous, like she’s looking for something. Or someone.
Lucy.
Wearing. My. Jersey.
A number 88 sweater, silver and blue with WILDER stretched across her back.
My heart nearly stops.
And all I can do is stare at her, because I’m still in disbelief that she’s here.
I should be subtle. Should play it cool, keep my game face on.
Instead, I smirk at her. “Took you long enough, Quinn.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush, and I swear—swear—her lips twitch, just the tiniest bit, like she’s fighting back a smile.
And suddenly, for the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe again.
She crosses her arms. “Don’t let it go to your head, Wilder.”
I smirk. “Too late. Seeing you in my name? Best thing I’ve seen all season.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re unbearable.”
I lean in slightly. “And yet, here you are. In my jersey.”
I want to reach for her, to pull her into me so badly… but I don’t. Not yet.
And then—her voice, quiet, a little unsteady. “Did you mean it?”
It takes me a second to register. “Mean what?”
Her gaze flickers, like she’s unsure if she wants to say it out loud. “That I was your favorite part of the season.”
My stomach tightens.
I step in, slowly, closing the space between us. “Yeah,” I murmur. “I meant it.”
She looks so good in her ripped jeans, and my jersey, her long hair loose and wavy, her eyes bright and filled with hope, it’s taking all of my willpower not to rush this.
“Are you still scared? Of us?” I ask.
She swallows. “Wilder.”
I arch a brow. “You’re deflecting.” She huffs. “And you’re annoying.”
“Answer the question, Quinn.”
Her tone softens. “I was scared of falling. But it’s too late, because I already did.”
Best words I’ve heard all year.
“Why…are you scared?” she blurts.
“Oh, you absolutely terrify me,” I admit, grinning at her. “But I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”
She exhales, soft and shaky.
And then—finally, finally—I reach for her.
And this time?
She doesn’t pull away.
I bend down at the same time that she lifts onto her toes and our mouths meet.
She grips the front of my jersey like she needs something to hold onto. I press in closer, deepening the kiss, pouring every ounce of what I feel into it—every second of missing her, every regret, every damn thing I’ve been too afraid to say.
And Lucy does the same.