Page 6 of In My Hockey Era
This girl Lucy is very pretty—objectively so.
She has striking blue eyes and natural confidence—like she’s always on the verge of saying something sharp, or smart, or devastatingly funny.
I replay her video, watching the way her eyes light up when she talks about the team, even through her frustration.I’m supposed to be annoyed, but all I can think is—she really loves hockey.
And I love that.
I smirk at Chase.“Let’s just say she has my attention.”
• • •
Two days later, I sink into the hotel bed, muscles aching in that satisfying way after a hard-fought game.The win should have me riding a high, but instead, I’m staring at my tablet, barely paying attention to the post-game recap playing muted on the TV.My inbox is full—PR updates, media requests, a reminder from my agent about a charity event coming up—but my thumb hovers over the notification that’s really been eating at me.
Lucy Quinn posted a new video.
I tap it before I can think better of it.
She’s sitting cross-legged on her couch, a worn Stampede sweatshirt slouching off one shoulder, hair piled into a messy knot on top of her head.Her dog—Max, according to my very recent and possibly obsessive deep dive—snoozes at her side, and she absentmindedly scratches between his ears while she talks.
“No, I don’t regret anything I said,” she announces, voice sharp with conviction.“This book club stunt is still ridiculous.But let’s be clear—I don’t hate Bennett Wilder.”She pauses, lips curving like she knows exactly what kind of chaos that little disclaimer is about to unleash.“I just don’t think this is the best use of team resources.”
I snort.Hell of a backhanded compliment.
I scroll further, skimming past game breakdowns, roster hot takes, and the occasional personal post buried between her hockey content.She’s been running this account for years.She’s not just a casual fan—she actually knows the sport, understands it in a way most people don’t.I’m impressed.
I watch another video.Then another.At some point, I realize I’ve been at this for almost an hour.
I scrub a hand down my face, dropping the tablet onto my chest.“Shit.”
This was supposed to be a quick check-in.See what the latest chatter was, maybe gauge how bad the backlash is.But instead, I’ve been sitting here, scrolling through Lucy Quinn’s entire existence like some kind of creep.
I glance at my phone on the nightstand.For half a second, I consider texting Chase, just to get roasted back into reality.Instead, I sigh, shove my tablet aside, and flip onto my stomach.
I need to sleep.I need to focus on actual hockey.
And I definitely need to stop thinking about Lucy Quinn.
3
AN OFFER I CAN’T REFUSE
Lucy
The wings are extra crispy, the beer is cold, and Ethan is being an idiot.
In other words, it’s a regular Wednesday night.
“I’m just saying,” he argues, waving a fry in the air like it’s a microphone.“If you had to pick between saving me or saving your precious Stampede’s playoff hopes, I’d be a dead man, wouldn’t I?”
I pop a fry into my mouth and smirk.“That depends.Are we talking Game Seven of the Finals?”
Laughter erupts around the table.
“You’re a real piece of work, Quinn,” Ethan groans, but he’s grinning as he dunks his fry in ketchup.
The guys from work—Ethan, Marco, and Troy—are some of my favorite people to grab food with after a shift.They get me.They don’t flinch when I’m elbow-deep in someone’s emergency on the job, and they sure as hell don’t flinch when I out-eat them in wings or out-trash-talk them in sports.It’s a perfect dynamic.
The conversation shifts to some drama from last night’s shift—Marco had a patient who tried to flirt his way out of an ambulance ride—but my phone buzzes against the sticky tabletop, pulling my attention away.
