Page 8 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

FORCED PROXIMITY

Lucy

T onight’s the night.

The book club meeting. I’d had to trade shifts with Troy to make this work, and for reasons known to me, I’m more frazzled than I expected to be.

I take the time to blow dry my hair and then stand in my closet for a long time, my brain annoyingly stuck on Bennett.

Our phone conversation last weekend was enlightening, unexpected.

I’d given him crap and he’d teased me right back, like we’d been friends for years.

His voice was deep and smooth, with the kind of easy confidence that made everything he said sound like a challenge.

I’d been a while since I’d had that much fun talking to a guy.

But of course, he wasn’t just any guy. I was sure he had a whole army of puck bunnies in his phone available to him at the drop of a hat. Gross .

While I riffle through my closet, I realize something. He’d expect me to show up in my usual jeans and a Stampede sweatshirt…which is why I should prove him wrong. Just to keep him guessing, prove to him that he doesn’t have me all figured out.

I decide on a sleek black dress that barely skims my knees and pair it with tall brown boots. I’ve been told my legs are one of my best features and now they’ll be on full display. Ha! Take that Bennett Freaking Wilder.

At the last minute, I grab a tube of lipstick and lean in close to the mirror to apply it.

Sure, I can talk stats and roast players like one of the guys, but I still love a killer red lipstick.

It’s like putting on armor before going into battle—especially when dealing with men who underestimate me.

Tomboy with a touch of glam—my superpower.

Max watches from his spot on the couch, his fluffy tail wagging as if he knows I’m about to walk into enemy territory.

“You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with hockey players trying to turn book clubs into a PR stunt,” I mutter, scratching behind his ears before heading out the door.

The Stampede’s training facility is lit up like it’s game night, the parking lot packed with cars. I spot a few fans lingering outside, chatting and laughing, books clutched in their hands. The realization that people are actually excited about this sends another wave of disbelief through me.

I feel like I’ve crash-landed on Mars.

I tighten my grip on my bag and head inside, where the warm air and scent of fresh coffee hit me instantly. A staffer directs me toward the media room, and as I round the corner, I nearly run straight into a wall of solid muscle.

Correction— Bennett Wilder .

“Whoa,” he says, catching my elbow like I might actually need steadying. Which I don’t , because I am a professional who does not get thrown off by irritatingly attractive hockey players.

I step back, forcing a neutral expression. “Wilder.”

“Quinn,” he says, his mouth curving into a smirk. “You came.”

“I said I would.”

“Still could’ve bailed.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Tempting, but I’m a woman of my word.”

“Good to know.” His eyes flick over me like he’s assessing, like he’s seeing me differently than last time. If he notices the whole dress and boots ensemble, he doesn’t let on. “Nervous?”

I scoff. “About a book club? Please.”

“Right. Big, scary group of romance readers. Terrifying.”

I huff, sidestepping him and continue down the hall. “You should be worried. If they find out you didn’t actually read the book, they’ll eat you alive.”

Bennett chuckles, falling into step beside me. “That’s where you’re wrong, Quinn. I read every single page.”

I glance at him, skeptical. “Yeah? Prove it.”

His smirk deepens. “Ask me anything.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to decide if he’s bluffing. But before I can challenge him, Vivian appears in the doorway of the media room, waving us over.

“Perfect timing! Let’s get started.”

Bennett winks at me before stepping inside.

And, for reasons I refuse to acknowledge, my stomach flips.

It’s showtime.

I adjust the mic clipped to my collar and try to ignore the fact that my heart is hammering against my ribs. This is fine. Totally fine. Just me, sitting in a crowded room full of romance readers, about to talk about a book I barely tolerated.

And co-hosting with Bennett Wilder.

I exhale slowly, shifting in my seat. The Stampede’s media room has been transformed into a cozy book club setting—round tables, catered snacks, and an intimidating number of people staring up at the small stage where I’m seated next to the man who has been ruining my life for the past week.

Okay, maybe that’s dramatic. But ever since our stupid late-night phone call, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. About the way his voice sounded when he called me badass , about how easy it was to talk to him once I stopped being annoyed.

And now, here we are. Face to face again, a week later, under the worst possible circumstances.

Bennett shifts beside me, all effortless charm and obnoxious confidence. He’s wearing a Stampede quarter-zip, sleeves pushed up over his forearms, and his ridiculous thighs are spread wide in his chair like he owns the room. Technically, I guess he does.

I, on the other hand, am gripping my notes like they’re a lifeline.

Vivian stands at the podium, smiling at the crowd. “We are so excited to kick off our very first Stampede Book Club event with all of you!”

Loud cheers explode around the room. I gaze out, my eyes scanning the faces.

These girls look so excited to be here. Several even appear to be wearing shirts they’ve made—emblazoned with sappy quips like: In My Hockey Romance Era, Introverted, But Willing to Discuss Hockey Romance, and, possibly the most offensive: Save a Zamboni—Ride a Hockey Player.

One girl—with a particularly ample chest—is wearing a T-shirt that declares her part of the Puck Bunny Social Club.

I inwardly cringe. Do people have no shame?!

“And what better way to start than with a special live discussion, co-hosted by our very own Bennett Wilder and one of our most passionate fans, Lucy Quinn!”

There’s applause. Bennett grins like this is the best thing to ever happen to him. I swallow the urge to groan.

Vivian steps aside, and suddenly all eyes are on us. On me .

Bennett leans toward his mic. “So, Lucy, should we start with general thoughts? Maybe on how much you loved this book?”

I shoot him a look. “Yeah, sure. Let’s talk about the many ways this book made me want to set it on fire.”

Laughter ripples through the room. Bennett presses a hand to his chest like I’ve wounded him. “Wow. That’s how we’re starting?”

“Would you rather I lie?”

“I’d rather you admit it wasn’t that bad.”

“Then you’re in for a long night, Wilder.”

His grin widens. “Can’t wait.”

And just like that, we’re back in it. Back to the banter, back to the bickering. Back to the way it feels like the whole room disappears when he looks at me like that—like he’s enjoying every second of this.

Like he’s enjoying me .

God help me.

“I liked how the author balanced the emotional beats with the pacing of the game scenes,” Bennett says, leaning forward slightly.

“There’s this moment where the main character realizes he loves her while he’s playing, and it messes with his focus—that felt real to me.

I mean, obviously, I don’t have secret, unspoken feelings for anyone that are destroying my ability to function—”

I snort, and he flicks his gaze to me, grinning.

“—but I know what it’s like when something outside of hockey gets in your head.”

I cross my arms. “So, you’re saying you related to a romance novel?”

His smirk doesn’t waver. “I’m saying it was well-written. Maybe you should give the author some credit.”

The group laughs, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. But as the discussion continues, I can’t deny it—he really did read the book. And what’s worse, his insights are good . Thoughtful. He actually gets why people love these stories.

Which makes me incredibly annoyed. How very mature of him.

I steal a glance over at Vivian at one point, and she looks absolutely thrilled at the level of fan engagement our bickering is bringing in.

By the time the event wraps up, I’m more than ready to escape. I gather my things, slipping my phone into my bag, when I hear Bennett’s voice at my side.

“Hey, Quinn.”

I glance up, expecting more teasing, but instead, he looks… almost serious. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his expression just a little too casual.

“Yeah?”

“You wanna grab a drink?”

I blink. “A drink?”

“Yeah. You know, liquid refreshment. Something cold. Usually served in a glass.”

I fold my arms. “I know what a drink is, Wilder. I just don’t know why you’re asking me .”

He shrugs, easy as anything. “Maybe because it turns out I don’t totally hate talking to you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Is this some kind of ploy to make me admit I liked the book?”

“Nope. This is a ploy to get you to have a drink with me.”

I hesitate, which is ridiculous, because I should say no. I should . But there’s something about the way he’s looking at me, like he’s already expecting me to turn him down but hoping I don’t.

I sigh. “Fine. One drink.”

He grins like he just won something. “I’ll take it.”

We step out into the cool night air, and he gestures toward the parking lot. “There’s a place a few blocks from here—quiet, good drinks, terrible karaoke on Thursdays. You’ll love it.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t know what I love.”

“Sure I do. You love hockey, trash-talking, and apparently, getting proven wrong about romance novels.”

I shove him lightly as we walk. “Careful, Wilder. You’re dangerously close to making me regret this.”

But as we head toward the bar, I can’t ignore the tiny thrill in my stomach—the one that has absolutely nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the man beside me.