Page 7 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

COLLISION COURSE

Lucy

I almost didn’t come tonight.

Between the endless shift at work and the dull ache settling behind my eyes, I debated just crashing on my couch. But hockey always revives me, and if anyone deserves a good seat for once, it’s me.

Well, good is relative. I bought my ticket last minute and ended up high enough to develop a fear of heights.

Still, the game is electric, the Stampede battling it out against Chicago in a way that makes it worth the exhaustion weighing down my limbs.

At first intermission, I pull out my phone and see an email from Vivian:

Heard you’re here tonight—swing by the press box if you want to watch like the VIPs do.

I hesitate for all of five seconds before making my way down.

By the time I step into the suite, I feel completely out of place. Broadcasters, analysts, and team staff mill about, chatting like this is just another work event. I recognize faces I’ve seen on TV and have to actively stop myself from gawking.

Vivian grins when she spots me. “There she is! Welcome to the big leagues.”

“Yeah, this is—wow,” I say, scanning the room.

She hands me a soda and introduces me to a few people. I’m mid-conversation with a team statistician when a collective oof ripples through the room.

I turn back to the ice just in time to see Bennett Wilder sprawled on the rink, unmoving.

My stomach lurches.

One second he was cutting through the defense, the next he was crushed into the boards by a guy who has at least fifty pounds on him.

He stirs, slow and stiff, and even from up here I can tell he’s hurting. Trainers rush out as he struggles to his feet. He waves them off like he’s fine, but I don’t buy it.

The game presses on, but I barely watch.

“Wonder if he’ll be back out next period,” I murmur.

Vivian arches a brow at me. “Concerned?”

“No,” I lie. “Just… curious.”

She doesn’t look convinced. After a beat, she pulls a pass from her pocket and hands it to me. “Here. This will get you into the tunnel.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Just figured you might want some autographs,” she says breezily, but there’s something amused in her tone.

I squint at her, but she just smiles.

The game carries on and I navigate through a series of hallways to the inner workings of the arena. The pass on the lanyard around my neck means that the lone security guy only nods at me as I pass.

I keep expecting someone to stop me as I hover near the locker room entrance. Players filter past, heading out for the next period, and an equipment manager passes me carrying a bunch of sticks. I shouldn’t be back here.

Then I spot him.

Bennett stands off to the side, talking to a trainer. Or, more accurately, deflecting the trainer’s concerns.

“I told you, I’m fine,” he says, voice low but firm.

“Wilder, you took a hell of a hit.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

The trainer doesn’t look convinced, and neither do I. His posture is stiff, and when he shifts his weight, there’s the slightest hitch in his breath.

I step forward before I can second-guess myself. “You’re lying.”

Both of them turn. Bennett’s brows lift when he sees me. “Quinn?”

“You’re hurt,” I say, crossing my arms.

His lips twitch. “Nice to see you too.”

The trainer looks between us, clearly debating whether to let this unfold or tell me to get lost. I make the decision for him.

“Wilder?” the trainer asks, obviously leery of me—like he isn’t sure if I’m a random fan or a puck bunny who’s about to hump Bennett’s leg. Hard pass.

He tips his chin to me. “This is Lucy Quinn. She’s a paramedic. Lucy, this is Rodrigo, one of Stampede’s newest trainers.”

“Nice to meet you,” Rodrigo says, still suspicious.

“You too.” I give him a curt nod, and then turn my attention back to Bennett. “Where does it hurt?” I ask, ignoring the way his mouth curves like he’s enjoying this too much.

“I’m fine.”

“Wilder.” My voice is flat, unamused.

He sighs. “My ribs. I’m sure it’s just a bruise.”

I step closer. He doesn’t back away. I’m hyper-aware of the fact that we’re standing much closer than we ever have before. He’s sweat-damp, and still in his gear, which makes him much taller and broader than normal. He towers over me on a good day, but now he’s basically a giant.

“For someone who claims to be fine, you’re standing pretty stiffly,” I point out. “Lift your arm.”

He hesitates. I don’t. My fingers brush the hem of his jersey, and I swear I feel the muscles in his abdomen tighten.

“Careful, Quinn,” he murmurs. “I might start thinking you actually like having your hands on me.”

I roll my eyes. “You wish. ” But my face is warm as I move my hand beneath his jersey and press my fingers lightly against his ribs, feeling for anything that might be more serious than a bruise.

His breathing is a little shallow. His muscles tighten beneath my touch.

When I glance up, his eyes are on me.

Something flickers between us—something new.

He’s way too flirty for someone with a possible broken rib.

Hockey players are so infuriating.

I clear my throat and step back. “You’ll live,” I say, making a show of wiping my hands on my jeans. “Try not to get pancaked again, though.”

He smirks. “I’ll do my best to stay on my feet. But if I don’t… will you be around to check me out again?”

The innuendo is clear. I scoff, turning to go before he can see that my cheeks are burning.

“See you around, Wilder.”

And then I’m walking off, heart beating way too fast for someone who’s supposed to be a professional.