Page 70 of The Book Club Boyfriend
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, notliterally,” 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 inThe Atlanticafterward.
“Okay,” I say halfway through margarita number two. “I have to ask.”
She raises a brow. “Uh-oh.”
“How didyoufall 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.”
