Page 107 of In My Hockey Era
The puck slams into the boards.The groan from the crowd is a sharp, disappointed wave.Chase shoots me a look, one that saysWhat the hell, man?but I don’t respond.
Because I already know.
I’m playing like shit.
I get back on the bench, jaw locked as I rip my helmet off.I brace my forearms on my knees and try to catch my breath, but all I can see—all I can think about—is Lucy.
I don’t know if she’s watching.Can’t let myself think about that right now.I grab the water bottle in front of me and squeeze a stream of icy electrolyte mix into my mouth.
I play harder.Hit a little too rough, shove when I don’t need to, take a penalty I probably shouldn’t.Coach yells at me to get my head on straight, but I can’t.
The final buzzer sounds, and I barely register that we won.It doesn’t feel like it.
I skate through the handshake line on autopilot, my body exhausted, but my brain still running in circles.My chest is a mess of emotions I don’t have the energy to name.
And then—post-game interviews.
I’m not in the mood, but it’s my last obligation before I can get the hell out of here.I tug my hat lower over my forehead and answer questions the way I always do—flat, easy, neutral.
Until the reporter shifts gears.
“So, Wilder,” he says, leaning into the mic.“You and Lucy Quinn had one of the most unexpected rivalries of the season.You were teasing her on social media, then defending romance novels, then… well, I think fans started rooting for something else entirely.”
There’s a murmur of laughter from the press.I keep my expression unreadable, even as my gut tightens.
He grins, glancing at his notes.“A lot of people have been wondering—what’s the deal with #QuinnWilder these days?”
Silence stretches for half a second too long.
I could brush it off.Dodge the question, laugh it away.But I’m so tired.Tired of pretending she doesn’t still own every inch of my stupid heart.
So I grip the mic a little tighter, meet the camera head-on.“If you had told me at the start of the season that I’d be answering questions about Lucy Quinn instead of my shot percentage, I’d have called you crazy.But here we are.”There’s a small chuckle from the press in the room.But I’m not finished.“And I’ve gotta say… my time spent with her has been one of my favorite parts of the season.She’s got the best hockey takes in the game, a mouth that could start wars, and somehow, she still put up with me.I don’t know what else to tell you.”
The words settle into the room, quiet and charged.A direct hit, right where I intended.The reporters blink.The PR guy shifts in his seat.
But I don’t regret it.
Lucy has taught me something—honesty really is the best policy.I’m not afraid to put it out there.
When I rise to my feet and exit the media room, I don’t expect to see her.
Standing just outside the locker room, looking unsure, hopeful, nervous, like she’s looking for something.Or someone.
Lucy.
Wearing.My.Jersey.
A number 88 sweater, silver and blue withWILDERstretched across her back.
My heart nearly stops.
And all I can do is stare at her, because I’m still in disbelief that she’s here.
I should be subtle.Should play it cool, keep my game face on.
Instead, I smirk at her.“Took you long enough, Quinn.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush, and I swear—swear—her lips twitch, just the tiniest bit, like she’s fighting back a smile.
