Page 18 of In My Hockey Era
“That’syour 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’susedto 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.
7
COLLISION COURSE
Lucy
Ialmost 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,goodis 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 collectiveoofripples through the room.
I turn back to the ice just in time to see Bennett Wilder sprawled on the rink, unmoving.
