Page 51 of In My Hockey Era
I ignore him, instead typing out my next tweet.
Me:If I have to suffer through this fanfiction, so does Bennett.Which means he’s buying me coffee for the rest of the weekend.
Immediately, the responses flood in.
@HockeyShipWars:SHE’S USING HIS TACTICS AGAINST HIM.QUEEN BEHAVIOR.
Damn straight.
He reads over my shoulder and lets out a low whistle.“Damn.That’s good.”
I smirk.“Told you.”
There’s one more that catches my attention.
@LazyLindsay:If she doesn’t understand that Wilder wants her, she needs to read a book called: Hockey Romance for Dummies
I roll my eyes.“Some of these are really dumb,” I announce.
And for once, Bennett Wilder has nothing to say.
• • •
The crisp afternoon air carries the scent of barbecue and fried food, a symphony of country music spilling from open doors as we walk down Broadway.The energy of the city is electric—tourists in cowboy boots, neon signs flickering, the distant hum of a street performer strumming his guitar.
After a full morning of fan events, my feet ache, and my social battery is running dangerously low, but I have to admit… I’m kind of enjoying this.
Even with Bennett striding beside me, way too smug for someone who had to sign at least twenty romance novels with#WildAboutWilderwritten inside.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he says, nudging me with his elbow.“That’s concerning.”
I shoot him a look.“Maybe I’m just basking in the rare peace of you not running your mouth.”
Bennett lets out a low chuckle, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.“YouwishI’d stop talking, Quinn.”
He’s right.As annoying as he is, the constant back-and-forth has become… weirdly comfortable.Like it’s ourthingsomehow.
We stop in front of a small restaurant with a chalkboard sign advertisingthe best fried chicken in Tennessee, and my stomach makes an executive decision before my brain can weigh in.
“This place looks good,” I say.
“The best chicken in the entire state—we’re practically obligated to try it.”He opens the door, gesturing for me to go in first.“After you.”
Inside, it’s warm and cozy, the scent of buttery biscuits and hot sauce filling the air.We grab a booth near the window, and a waitress—who does a visible double-take when she sees Bennett—drops off menus before scurrying away, glancing at her phone like she’s about to text someoneyou won’t believe who just walked in.
Bennett leans back in the booth, stretching his legs out so they nudge against mine under the table.
I pretend not to notice.
“Okay,” I say, scanning the menu.“Loser pays?”
He smirks.“What are we betting on?”
I tap my fingers against the table, thinking.Then, I grin.“Actually how about this…If your team loses the All-Star game tonight, I get to pick the song you have to sing at karaoke afterward.”
We’d already established that he’s rooting for Team Fire, while I’m rooting for Team Ice—because, hello?They have McMasterson—literally the best goalie on the planet and one of my personal heroes.The guy is a god.
His brows lift.“That’s bold of you to assume I’d even agree to karaoke.”
