Page 64 of The Book Club Boyfriend
I stare at the message a second longer.
I don’t do sports.
I don’t do crowds.
Idefinitelydon’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 isalive—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 electricchaos.
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.
