Page 9 of In My Hockey Era
I have a feeling my life is about to change.
• • •
The Dallas Stampede headquarters is a fortress of glass and steel, standing bold against the Texas sky.I’ve driven past it a hundred times, usually on my way to a game, but I’ve never imagined stepping inside.And yet, here I am—buzzed through the front doors, my boots clicking on polished floors as a receptionist greets me with a knowing smile.
“Lucy Quinn?”she asks, as if there might be another woman walking in here wearing a hoodie with the Stampede’s logo faded from too many washes and a scuffed leather bag slung over one shoulder.
“That’s me,” I say, forcing a casualness I don’t feel.
“Right this way.”
She leads me through the heart of the operation, past walls lined with framed action shots of the team, and trophies glinting under spotlights.Employees move with purpose, some dressed business casual, others in Stampede-branded polos.A few give me curious looks.They’ve seen my face before.Maybe from my social media.Maybe from the absolute carnage I unleashed online about this book club stunt.
Either way, I hold my head up high.To say I’m not easily intimidated would be an understatement.I grew up with three older brothers and it was pretty chaotic—I learned to roll with the punches early on.
The tour is quick—too quick for me to process that I’m actually inside.I barely have time to gawk at a wall of signed jerseys before we stop in front of a conference room.The receptionist pushes open the door and gestures for me to step inside.
A woman is already waiting at a sleek oblong conference table.
Vivian Carter—sharp suit, sharper eyes, with the air of someone who eats PR nightmares for breakfast.She stands as I enter, offering me a firm handshake and a smile that doesn’t quite give away her thoughts.
“Lucy Quinn,” she says, like she’s sizing me up.“It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”
“Likewise,” I lie.I have no idea what to expect here.This is so strange.
She gestures to a seat, and I drop into it, keeping my expression neutral.
“I’ll get right to it,” she begins, folding her hands on the table.“You’ve been one of the Stampede’s most vocal—and passionate—fans for years.Your coverage of the team is impressive.Authentic.”
“Glad you think so,” I say, a little wary.“Doesn’t sound like the organization felt that way after my latest post.”
Cue my internal cringing.
Vivian’s mouth twitches like she’s holding back a smirk.“Ah, yes.Your… strong opinions on our book club initiative.”
“Strong opinions.That’s a polite way to put it.”I offer a smile that I hope doesn’t feel forced.
Good thing I have nerves of steel, otherwise, I’d be dying inside.
“We respect passionate fans.We really do.”She nods, her expression unreadable.“Which is why we want to offer you a seat at the table.”
I blink.That’s not what I expected.“I’m sorry.A seat at what table?”
Vivian leans forward, eyes gleaming like she’s already ten steps ahead of me.“The book club’s table.The team wants to bring you in.Officially.You’d be a ‘voice of the fans.’Help us shape the project into something even the critics can respect.A small stipend for your time, maybe some tickets to an upcoming game.”
I stare at her, momentarily speechless.Not because I’m flattered—because I’m suspicious.
“You do know I think this whole thing is a joke, right?”I ask.
“Yes.”
“And you want me involved anyway?”
“Exactly.”
I narrow my eyes.“Why?”
“Because people listen to you, Lucy.And whether you love this campaign or hate it, you’ve become part of the conversation.So why not step inside and actually help shape it?”
