Chapter Twenty-One
Queso Makes Everything Better
Scarlett
My morning starts with an unexpected text.
Lucy Wilder has invited me out.
I thought it over and replied with a snarky text.
Me: Fine, but if you try to braid my hair or talk about babies, I’m ghosting you.
She laughed and told me we’d get along just fine.
Just after seven o’clock, I’m walking into a downtown rooftop bar with string lights overhead and a skyline view.
Lucy stands, gives me a once-over, and grins. “You clean up nice, Calloway.” She slides a margarita across the table.
“You sound surprised,” I say, taking the drink and sipping it. “Is this a recruitment dinner? Do I get a WAG initiation badge?”
She laughs. “Please. We’re way past branding. This is just a drink between two women who, for better or worse, are now part of the Stampede circus.”
I raise a brow. “Better or worse? That doesn’t sound very wifey of you.”
We sit down across from each other, a basket of chips between us. “Oh, I adore Bennett,” she says easily. “But let’s not pretend the hockey world isn’t its own brand of unhinged.”
We clink glasses.
The next hour is… easy. And surprisingly real.
Lucy isn’t what I expected. I thought I’d meet another picture-perfect, filtered-to-oblivion Instagram wife.
But Lucy is sharp, witty, and unapologetic.
She tells me about the early days—working as a paramedic, then accidentally becoming a podcasting powerhouse.
She rolls her eyes at internet trolls, talks about advocating for women in sports, and casually mentions dragging an NHL reporter on Twitter once for calling her a distraction.
“I’m not a distraction,” she says, sipping her drink. “I’m the reason half his teammates found a damn audience.”
I snort into my glass. “You’re terrifying. In the best way.”
“And you’re not?” she says, arching a brow. “You basically built a career telling women to light their exes on fire and invest in themselves.”
“Well, not literally,” I mutter. “But yeah. Close.”
We talk about the book club, about the team, about Bennett.
It’s easy from the start—her energy is electric in the best way. She’s whip-smart, cutting, and hilarious, and I get the sense that if anyone ever came for her, she’d not only destroy them but also write a witty takedown to publish in The Atlantic afterward.
“Okay,” I say halfway through margarita number two. “I have to ask.”
She raises a brow. “Uh-oh.”
“How did you fall for a hockey player?”
She grins, but it’s a little softer now, thoughtful. “Honestly? I didn’t. Not at first.”
Okay, this is going to be interesting…
Lucy laughs, remembering some faraway memory. “Bennett is…” She shakes her head, nostalgic and a little annoyed. “He just kept showing up. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made it harder and harder to pretend I didn’t want him to.”
I pause, absorbing that. “So he wore you down.”
“He made me feel seen,” she corrects. “He let me be loud and complicated and passionate without ever trying to shrink me. And more than that—he didn’t try to convince me that love was perfect. He just… showed me that the right kind is worth the mess.”
I blink.
“Oh no,” she says, mock horror crossing her face. “Did I just make you feel something?”
“Disgust,” I deadpan. “Mostly that.”
She sips her drink and eyes me over the rim. “What’s going on with you and Chase?”
“Nothing,” I say too quickly.
“Mhm.”
“I mean it. He’s—he’s charming and smug and ridiculous. And yes, he looks unfairly good in a suit, and no, I’m not talking about this.”
Lucy grins. “Okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
We fall into comfortable banter again, and somewhere between chips and guac and a third margarita, I forget to be on guard. I forget to hold my opinions like weapons. I’m just… me.
It’s freeing.
And eventually—the conversation comes back to Chase.
“He drives me insane,” I confess. “In a very infuriating, occasionally confusing way.”
She smirks. “Welcome to the club. I once threw a donut at Bennett’s head during an argument.”
“Did it hit him?”
“Frosted side down,” she says proudly. “Left a smear on his shoulder. He wore it like a badge of honor.”
I laugh harder than I have in weeks. And suddenly, I realize I’ve been holding tension in my chest for so long that I forgot what it feels like to breathe freely.
And even though I made a big production of not wanting to talk about Chase, I can’t help the way my brain keeps returning to him. The way he looked on the ice—so powerful and in command. The way he teased me over the phone. I even find myself wondering about Rip.
Lucy leans back in her chair, studying me. “Can I say something kind of cheesy?”
“Do I have a choice?”
She grins. “Nope. You’re the real deal, Scarlett. Your work matters. The way you make women feel like they’re enough on their own? That’s powerful as hell. But—” Her eyes soften. “—it’s also okay to be enough and still want more. To want softness, intimacy, love.”
I go still.
Something in me—something stubborn and deeply buried—shifts.
She doesn’t say it like a warning. She says it like a truth. And weirdly, it doesn’t feel like an attack on everything I’ve built. It feels… possible.
And then she says, quieter now, “You know, your books? It’s great the way you make women feel strong and self-sufficient—it’s powerful.”
I nod, uneasy.
“But,” she adds gently, “being strong doesn’t mean shutting everyone out. And independence isn’t the same thing as loneliness.”
I stiffen. “I’m not lonely.”
“I didn’t say you were.” She smiles, not unkind. “But it’s okay to want more. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
I don’t respond right away. My throat’s tight, and I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s been a long time since someone said that to me without pity or a punchline. Just truth. Or maybe it’s because I’ve had too much tequila.
“You’re annoying,” I say, my voice rough.
Lucy just laughs. “You’ll get used to it.”
And oddly enough… I kind of hope I do.
We order two baskets of brisket nachos.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I have to armor up around another woman. I just feel seen.
Understood.
Empowered.
And maybe a little braver than I was an hour ago.