Page 33 of In My Hockey Era
I don’t know when things shifted.One minute, we were both focused on our burgers, and the next, the food is forgotten, the air between us shifting into something heavier.
Lucy leans back against the couch, her head tipping to the side as she watches me.Her eyes are still shadowed with exhaustion, but there’s something softer there now—something open.She licks a bit of ice cream from her bottom lip, and I swear to you, I forget how to function.
“Thanks for this,” she murmurs.“For coming over.”
“Anytime,” I say, and I mean it.
Her eyes drop to my mouth.Just for a second, but I catch it.And now I’m hyper-aware of everything—the way her knee is brushing against mine, the scent of her shampoo, the way her breath hitches slightly when I shift closer.
I lift a hand, brushing my knuckles along the side of her face, and she leans into the touch before she seems to catch herself.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispers.
I grin.“Probably.”
She exhales a laugh, quiet and breathy, and before she can overthink it, I close the space between us.
Our lips meet, slow and unhurried.She’s warm, soft, and a little hesitant at first—like she wasn’t expecting this, like she’s still deciding whether to give in.I let her set the pace, tilting my head, coaxing, letting her take what she wants.
And then she does.
Her fingers curl in the front of my shirt, pulling me closer.A quiet noise escapes her throat when I slide my hand to the nape of her neck, angling her just how I want.The kiss deepens, heat building between us, and—damn.I’m so screwed.
Hot arousal pulses through my veins.Holy hell, the girl can kiss.
When she finally pulls away, her lips are kiss-swollen, her eyes flickering with something I can’t quite read.
“That...was probably a mistake,” she says, but there’s no conviction in her voice.
I just smirk, pulling her in for another kiss.“Sure, Quinn.Whatever you say.”
12
ON THE RECORD (AND FLUSTERED)
Lucy
Itap my fingers against the mic, stalling.
This should be easy.I’ve been running this podcast for years, talking about the Stampede like it’s my full-time job.Breaking down plays, questioning coaching decisions, hyping up players when they deserve it and roasting them when they don’t.But tonight?Tonight, I feel off my game.
I clear my throat and lean in.
“Alright, Stampede fans, let’s talk about last night’s game.Because wow—if that wasn’t a clinic in offensive dominance, I don’t know what is.”
My voice steadies as I slip into analysis mode, recapping the highlights.I rant a little about our defense—because, seriously, what the hell was that second period?—and praise the power play for finally looking competent.Twenty minutes fly by in a blur of stats, takes, and a dramatic reenactment of a referee’s terrible call.
But then I get to the book club update.And… yeah.That’s where I stumble.Like a train coming off the tracks.
“So, the Stampede Book Club is still going strong.Our latest read?A classic hockey romance with a surprisingly solid female lead.I—uh—may have gone into it fully expecting to hate it, but I have to admit, it’s kind of… well… not terrible.”
I make a face at myself, knowing damn well that’s an understatement.
I actually liked the book.More than liked it.And it’s partially because of Bennett freaking Wilder.
I drag in a breath and glance at my screen.“Okay, let’s take a couple of listener questions before I wrap up.First up… oh, great.This one’s from Sarah.And she asks…”
I scan the words, and my stomach drops.
