Page 6 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

OVERTIME CONVERSATIONS

Bennett

M y phone buzzes on the nightstand, lighting up the dark hotel room. I glance at the time—it’s almost midnight. Probably a teammate sending some dumb meme, but when I pick it up, Lucy Quinn’s name stares back at me.

I grin.

The message is short. Aggressive.

Lucy: This book is ridiculous.

She got my contact information through Vivian—as part of the book club PR arrangement. It was sent out after the meeting in an email with a “Feel free to reach out if you have any questions” kind of note. But of course, I never expected her to actually use it.

I’m glad she decided to.

I prop myself up against the pillows, and text her back.

Me: You’re welcome.

The typing bubbles appear, then disappear. Then appear again. I wait, amused, until she finally responds.

Lucy: I wasn’t thanking you.

I bite back a laugh. I haven’t seen her since my idiotic idea to show up at the animal shelter, and I’d almost forgotten how feisty she is. Almost .

Me: Sure sounded like gratitude to me.

Lucy: The guy in this book just growled. GROWLED. At her. Like whyyyyy???

Me: The dude’s probably a werewolf.

Lucy: He’s a hockey player.

Me: Same thing.

A full minute passes. Then another message.

Lucy: You’re an idiot.

Now I’m laughing, fully awake, like an idiot myself. I could end this here—tell her goodnight, let her stew. But I don’t. Instead, I type out a reply.

Me: But are you enjoying it?

Another pause.

Lucy: That’s not the point.

Me: Sounds like a yes if I ever heard one.

She fires something back so fast I know she must’ve already been typing.

Lucy: The point is that the author clearly has no idea how hockey works. These guys are supposedly playing a game the next day, and they’re up all night doing… things.

At this, I smirk.

Me: Elite athletes have stamina.

Lucy: Not THAT much stamina.

Me: And you know this…how?

I expect her to tell me off, or ignore me altogether. Instead, my phone starts ringing. I stare at it for a second before answering.

“Couldn’t handle losing the argument over text?” I tease.

Her scoff comes through the speaker loud and clear. “I wanted to hear you say something dumb in real-time.”

I smirk. “You’re in luck. That’s my specialty.”

What starts as her venting about the book turns into a debate about hockey. Then a debate about which movies are overrated. Then a conversation about growing up a fan of the sport.

Her voice is nice… soft and more feminine than I remembered. I can’t say it matches the rest of her, which is prickly as hell, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love it.

“How do you know so much about hockey?” I ask.

“My dad was a coach, and my three older brothers played, I basically grew up watching film instead of princess movies.”

That’s kind of cool, actually.

“So, do you always text people at midnight to yell at them about books?”

“Only when they deserve it.”

“Lucky me.” I chuckle.

“You really are.”

I grin, shifting to lie on my back. Her voice is sharp, but there’s a hint of amusement under it. She’s having fun with this, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.

“Wait, midnight?” she asks, confused. “Where are you?”

“Philly,” I say. “But we come back tomorrow. You know, for someone who claims to hate this book, you sure are invested.”

“I hate this book. Not all books.”

“Good to know. So, what do you usually read?

“True crime. Some mystery. And actual hockey books, not this… whatever this is.”

“Harsh. What about romance?”

“ You think I read romance?”

“I think you’d like the right one. Maybe you just need the right person to recommend one.”

There’s a pause. A long one. I might’ve gone too far, but then she exhales a sharp breath.

“Wow. Do you flirt with all your haters, or am I special?”

“Only the ones who text me at midnight.”

She makes a sound—something between a scoff and a laugh. I’m grinning into the phone, picturing her rolling her eyes.

“What do you do anyway? Besides leading an anti-Bennett Wilder campaign?”

“I’m a paramedic.”

I sit up a little.

“Seriously?”

“What, don’t believe me?”

“No, I do. Just didn’t expect it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess I figured someone who spends all day saving lives wouldn’t waste time arguing with a dumb hockey player.”

“That’s your logic? You think I’d be too noble to argue with you?”

“Something like that.”

“Please. I could be in the middle of stitching someone up and I’d still make time to tell you you’re wrong.”

I laugh. I like the image of her—completely unbothered, fixing someone up while serving up a tongue-lashing. It checks out—I have a feeling there’s not much that could scare this girl off.

“That’s impressive.”

“You’re just saying that because you like people arguing with you.”

“Maybe. But I also think it’s pretty badass.”

She’s quiet for a second. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “Yeah, well. It’s just my job.”

“It’s a hell of a job.”

Another pause. She clears her throat.

Something tells me I’m going to have my hands full with this one. Whether it’s because she had to hold her own against her brothers or doubters in her career, she’s used to being the underdog and clearly, she thrives in it.

“So, are we done debating, or do I need to explain to you again why this book is terrible?” she asks.

“Oh, we’re just getting started.”

I hear her sigh, but I can tell she’s smiling.

Somewhere between arguing and laughing, I forget I’m supposed to be playing it cool. Because Lucy Quinn is actually cool and interesting and funny, and I’m enjoying this way more than I ever expected to.