Page 28 of In My Hockey Era
I roll my eyes again, but when she leaves, I find myself checking my reflection in the mirror, smoothing down my sweater.
I shouldn’t care what Bennett Wilder thinks.
And yet, I kind of do.
• • •
Ethan lets out a low whistle as we step down to our seats, which are absurdly close to the ice.“Damn, Lucy.PR must really like you.”
I grin, sinking into my seat and looking around the arena.“The tickets are actually courtesy of number 88,” I admit.“A thank you for co-hosting the book club thing.”
He looks impressed and slightly curious.
The energy in the arena is electric, the pre-game warmups in full swing.Players in blue and white Stampede jerseys zip across the ice, taking shots on goal and passing pucks back and forth with the kind of ease that only comes from years of muscle memory.My eyes scan the ice, searching for number 88 before I can stop myself.
Bennett glides past the boards closest to us, a casual, easy stride, but when his gaze flicks to our section, it stalls.His head tilts slightly, brow furrowing for a split second before smoothing over.But I catch it.
He sees me.
And then—he sees Ethan.
I try not to overthink it, but something about the way his jaw tightens makes me shift in my seat.
“Are they always this focused before a game?”Ethan asks beside me, oblivious to my sudden internal spiral.
“Mostly.Some guys are more intense than others.”My gaze flicks back to Bennett just as he stops near a group of teammates.One of them nudges him and says something, and whatever it is makes Bennett smirk—before stealing another glance our way.
A slow, deliberate once-over.
Ethan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.“What?”he asks, catching my expression.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, tearing my gaze away and focusing on the ice like I haven’t just been caught wondering why a six-foot-three hockey player suddenly looks vaguely irritated.
The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of warmups, and the team starts clearing the ice.I exhale, shaking my head at myself.
This is ridiculous.Bennett Wilder does not care who I bring to a game.
Obviously.
And yet, as he skates off, he glances over his shoulder one last time.
It was an incredible game, but in the end, Stampede lost 3-2.Ethan dropped me off an hour ago and now Max is curled up against my side as I settle under the blankets, his fluffy body a warm weight against me.I absently scratch behind his ears while scrolling through my phone, replaying moments from tonight’s game in my head.
Specifically, a certain moment during warmups when Bennett looked like he wanted to break his stick in half after spotting me with Ethan.
I bite my lip, hovering over his contact before finally typing out a message.
Me:Nice game tonight.Guess PR really does love me if they gave me those seats, huh?
I don’t expect an immediate response—it’s late, and he’s probably still out with the team—but three dots appear almost instantly.
Bennett:You looked like you were enjoying yourself.
Me:I always enjoy hockey.
Bennett:Is that what you were enjoying?
I pause, rereading the message.There’s something there, something almost… pointed.
