Page 7 of In My Hockey Era
I open my notifications and my stomach leaps.
It’s an email from Dallas Stampede Public Relations.
That’s… new.
I swipe to open it, scanning the message quickly:
Lucy Quinn,
We’d love to invite you to the Stampede headquarters to discuss your thoughts on the Book Club Initiative.Let us know if you’re available.
Best,
Vivian Carter
Director of PR, Dallas Stampede
I read it twice.Then a third time.
“Uh-oh,” Ethan says, stealing a wing off my plate.“That’s your murder face.Who pissed you off now?”
I ignore him, chewing the inside of my cheek.I’ve been covering the Stampede for years as a fan—first on social media, then through my podcast.I never did it for the notoriety.Never even tried to get press passes or inside access.I did it because I love hockey.But this?This is interesting.
“You good?”Marco asks, eyeing me.
I lock my phone and shove it into my pocket.“Yeah,” I say, reaching for my beer.“Just got invited to the Stampede office.”
Three sets of eyebrows shoot up.
“For what?”Troy asks.
I smirk.“Apparently, they wanna talk about mythoughtson the book club.”
Ethan chokes on his drink.Marco full-on cackles.
“Are they sure about that?”Ethan wheezes.“You called it a flaming dumpster fire.”
“I was being generous,” I deadpan.
They’re all laughing again, but my brain is already spinning, trying to figure out what the hell the Stampede actually wants from me.
Whatever it is, I’ll find out soon.
• • •
Back home, I crawl into bed and tug my rescue mutt, Max, into my arms.He’s a Great Pyrenees mix, which means he’s big, fluffy, and incredibly loyal, and he’s been my ride-or-die since the day I found him at the shelter.
“You’re the only man I need in my life, Maxie boy,” I murmur, scratching behind his ears as he lets out a contented sigh.
Then, I grab my phone, open my email, and type out my response.
Yes.I’ll be there.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
The following day at work, I’m too busy to dwell on hockey, which is probably for the best.It’s been a busy night.Currently the inside of the ambulance smells like antiseptic, sweat, and a bad decision made about three tequila shots ago.
But I’m not bothered.
