Chapter Nineteen
Puck Around and Find Out
Scarlett
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number, and for once, I’m hoping it’s a spam bot trying to sell me discounted yoga pants or tell me I’ve won a free cruise. Because I don’t need any actual disruptions right now. I’m trying to work.
I grab it and glance at the message.
Unknown Number: Hi! This is Lucy Wilder—I got your number from Vivian (hope that’s okay).
I used to do the book club thing with the Stampede, and now I’m married to one of the guys (Bennett #88, the hot one with the dimples).
Anyway, I wanted to say hi and also—if you’re free tomorrow night, I’d love to invite you to the home opener. Great seats, fun crowd, zero pressure.
I blink at the message. Lucy Wilder.
Okay. Unexpected.
I’ve seen clips of her online—bright smile, sarcasm for days, somehow managing to hold her own among a team full of hockey players and rabid romance fans. She seemed… terrifyingly cool.
And now she’s inviting me to a game?
I should say no. I have nothing to wear. I don’t know the rules. The only thing I know about hockey is that Chase plays it, and that’s not exactly a glowing endorsement.
Still…
I have nothing else going on tomorrow night. I’m out of peanut butter. And I could use a distraction.
But hockey of all things?
I stare at the message a second longer.
I don’t do sports.
I don’t do crowds.
I definitely don’t do group bonding events filled with small talk, free T-shirts, and overpriced beer.
But… I also don’t have plans tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that, unless you count “ugly cry on the floor in sweatpants and argue with a Google Doc.”
I blink at the message, reread it twice, and then check to make sure I haven’t hallucinated it entirely. Nope. It’s real. I’ve been invited to a professional hockey game by the unofficial queen of the Stampede WAGs.
I sigh and type back.
Me: Hey! That’s actually… really nice of you. Sure. Why not? I’ve never been to a hockey game. (Prepare to answer a thousand dumb questions.)
Lucy: Yay! I’ll leave you a pass at will call. Bring a jacket—it gets cold.
And no dumb questions. Just wait. You’ll love it. ??
The second I step into the arena, I’m hit with the smell of popcorn, the blast of cold air, and the overwhelming hum of thousands of people buzzing with anticipation.
The place is alive—flashing lights, pounding music, giant faces of sweaty men projected on screens the size of billboards.
What in the world? I don’t get the hype, but I follow the signs to will call and get my ticket.
The stadium is packed, a sea of jerseys and face paint and the unmistakable smell of soft pretzels and spilled Bud Light. It’s chaos. Loud, messy, absolutely electric chaos.
Lucy finds me just inside the VIP entrance, wearing a royal blue Stampede jacket over a sparkly tank top, her golden hair pulled into a ponytail that somehow looks casual and glamorous at the same time.
“Scottie!” She grins, pulling me into a hug like we’ve known each other for years. “You came!”
“Well, you invited me, and I had no excuse,” I say, then add, “Unless you count a looming deadline and a lifelong skepticism of organized sports.”
Lucy laughs. “You’re gonna fit in just fine.”
She leads me through a maze of people and security until we’re courtside—sorry, rinkside?—in plush seats with a perfect view of the ice.
“This is… intense,” I say, already looking forward to the start of the game more than I thought I would.
Lucy nods. “You’re gonna love it. You’ll see.”
I find my seat near the glass just as the lights dim and the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers like God narrating a Netflix trailer.
“Welcome to opening night, Stampede fans!”
I flinch at the sudden burst of pyrotechnics. The crowd roars. The players skate out through flashing lights and smoke machines like rockstars making a grand entrance—helmets gleaming, jerseys crisp, shoulders squared with oversized protective gear and ridiculous amounts of swagger.
I’m sorry…but what in the world is this?!
And then I see him.
Chase.
He’s the last one out. The crowd gets even louder when his name is called.
“Number 91—Chase Remington!”
My stomach flips.
He’s in full gear now, and he looks huge. He moves like a weapon—like confidence and precision and brute force all wrapped up in a six-foot-something body that skates like it was born on ice.
Lucy watches me, grinning like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. I smile back, try to play it cool. Sit down. Sip my soda. Tell myself I am here as a journalist of life. An observer of the absurd. A detached, unbiased critic of this weird, out-of-body experience they call hockey.
But ten minutes into the game, I’m… engaged. Like, fully engaged.
Fifteen minutes in, I’m yelling at the refs like they can actually hear me.
By the second period?
I’m banging on the glass and shouting, “OPEN YOUR EYES, REF, HE GOT TRIPPED!” while Lucy cackles beside me.
“Wow,” she wheezes, passing me another nacho. “I didn’t know you were gonna go full gladiator.”
“I didn’t either,” I pant. “But that was a flagrant foul and no one seems to care.”
“They never do,” she agrees. “Welcome to hockey.”
I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m standing up half the time. I’m booing like I’ve been doing it for years. I don’t do sports. I don’t yell. I don’t lose composure.
But there I am, completely uncomposed, screaming at a grown man on skates like I’ve got money riding on it.
And watching Chase is… not what I expected at all.
He skates like he was born with blades on his feet.
He’s not at all the golden retriever he is in real life. On the ice?
He’s… different.
Sharper. Focused. Dangerous, almost.
He crashes into an opposing player, wins the puck, and glides down the ice with all the speed and power of a tsunami.
Lucy elbows me. “Chase looks good tonight.”
I don’t answer.
Mostly because I’m trying not to ogle him like a thirst trap.
And somehow, as if he knows, he looks toward the stands. Not scanning the crowd—looking. Right. At. Me.
His brows raise, the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to laugh.
Because yeah, I’m on my feet.
Banging on the glass.
Screaming like I’ve lost my mind.
And judging by the glint in his eye?
He’s a little scared.
A little amused.
And maybe—a little turned on?