Page 13 of Taming the Grumpy Hockey Player

Lucy shows up just as Lewis brings the ball back for the third time, her bright presence contrasting with the dull sky. Her hair is slightly tousled by the breeze, and she hugs an umbrella to her chest, her gaze soft and focused as if she’s already reading the moment. She’s carrying an umbrella and a bag of treats, her smile warm despite the cool breeze.

“Thought I’d find you here,” she says, handing me the bag. “Bribery for the star of the campaign.”

“For Lewis or me?” I ask, smirking.

“Depends on who behaves better,” she quips, her eyes sparkling with humor. She kneels to scratch behind Lewis’s ears, and he rewards her with an enthusiastic lick.

We fall into an easy rhythm, walking the park paths while Lewis trots ahead, his tail wagging happily. The conversation flows, lighter than usual but with an undercurrent of something deeper.

The first drops catch us off guard, a light sprinkle tapping gently on the leaves before transforming into a sudden downpour. The air fills with the sharp, earthy scent of rain, and the world around us blurs as water streams from the branches above. The sound of rain hitting the leaves is almost deafening, mingling with Lewis’s surprised bark as he looks skyward,shaking off the first few drops. We break into a jog, darting for the gazebo near the pond just as the rain intensifies. By the time we reach cover, we’re both soaked, and Lewis is a dripping, gleeful mess. He shakes himself vigorously, sending a spray of water flying in every direction.

I can’t help but laugh, the sound escaping me before I realize how ridiculous we must look. "Well, that escalated quickly," I say, running a hand through my damp hair.

Lucy laughs too, setting her umbrella down on the gazebo bench with a soft thud, its surface dripping from the rain. "I should’ve known better than to trust the forecast," she says, leaning against the railing and looking out at the pond. The ripples of raindrops dance across the surface, the world muted but somehow alive with the rhythm of the storm.

“I kind of like the rain,” she admits. “It makes everything feel…cleaner. Like a fresh start. My dad used to say that, actually. Whenever it rained, he’d take me out to the porch with a blanket and hot chocolate and say, ‘Lucy, this is nature’s way of giving us a do-over.’ It stuck with me, I guess.”

I nod, looking out at the rippling water. “I guess I could use one of those,” I admit, the words heavier than they should be. All the missteps, the regrets I’ve carried for years, feel like they’re pressing against my chest, begging for a way to be erased, or at least rewritten.

Her gaze sharpens, curiosity mingling with concern. “A fresh start?”

“Yeah,” I say, the words coming more easily than I expect. “I’ve made mistakes. Big ones. And for a long time, I thought the best thing I could do was keep my head down and focus on hockey. But now…”

“Now?” she prompts gently.

I glance at her, then at Lewis, who’s lying at our feet, his eyes half-closed. “Now I’m starting to think maybe there’s more to life than that. Maybe I can…do more. Be more.”

Lucy doesn’t say anything right away, but her expression softens, and when she speaks, her voice is quiet but steady. “I think you’re already doing that, Logan. And you don’t have to do it alone.”

That night, back at my apartment, I replay the conversation in my head, turning over Lucy’s words like a puzzle piece that almost fits but not quite. Her belief in me felt genuine, her quiet confidence unnerving in a way I can’t ignore. It’s been a long time since someone looked at me and saw potential, not just a hockey player or a screw-up, and it’s stirring something I’m not sure I’m ready to face. Lucy’s words echo, carrying more weight than I’m used to. She’s right—I’m not alone. Not with Lewis. Not with the team. And maybe, not with her.

I sit on the floor, leaning against the couch as Lewis curls up beside me. The room is quiet except for the faint patter of rain against the windows. I reach down to scratch behind his ears, and he lets out a contented sigh.

“You’re a good dog, Lewis,” I murmur. “Better than I deserve.”

Lewis thumps his tail once, as if to disagree.

Chapter 9

Lucy

The shelter hums with life, the kind of joyful chaos that always leaves me both exhilarated and exhausted. The faint scent of lavender mingles with the earthy aroma of pet food, while the distant sound of soft paws against the tiled floor adds to the lively atmosphere. A family of four is in one corner, laughing as a fluffy tabby weaves between their feet. Near the counter, a young couple is deep in conversation with Emma about adopting a bonded pair of dachshunds. And then there’s Lewis, our unofficial mascot, sprawled out in the middle of the main walkway, his tail wagging lazily as visitors stop to pet him. Today, he’s fresh from a grooming session—his black and white coat gleaming and his collar newly polished, making him look like the perfect poster pup for the shelter. He’s a hit—not just with the shelter guests, but with the community as a whole.

“You’re stealing the spotlight, Lewis,” I mutter, leaning down to scratch behind his ears. He thumps his tail harder, grinning up at me with that lopsided doggy smile that melts even the hardest hearts.

The light atmosphere dims as I overhear a hushed conversation near the reception desk. Two women, regular visitors who volunteer occasionally, are whispering in low tones.

“Did you see the article about Logan Mitchell?” one of them says, her voice carrying despite her efforts to keep it discreet. “It’s all about him and his ex. She’s claiming he was never around and cared more about his career than her. But then again, wasn’t she the one posting their private moments for likes?”

My stomach sinks. I’ve heard whispers about Logan’s past before—bits and pieces of scandal and heartache that painted him as reckless and untrustworthy. Hearing it again, though, stirs something different—a gnawing doubt tangled with a sense of unfairness. I’ve seen him in moments that don’t fit this narrative: patient, kind, quietly thoughtful. Could I have been wrong about him all along, or is there more to his story than anyone realizes? I’ve always brushed them off, preferring to judge him by what I’ve seen firsthand. But now, with his name back in the headlines, I know the chatter will only grow louder.

Later, I’m at the local café, nursing a cappuccino and trying to shake off the unease that’s been gnawing at me since this morning. Kate slides into the seat across from me, her oversized purse bumping the table as she settles in.

“You look like you’re about to fight someone,” she says, eyeing me over her latte. “What’s going on?”

I sigh, swirling the foam in my cup. “It’s Logan. Or, more specifically, Logan and his ex. There’s an article making the rounds, and people are already talking.”

Kate’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, the infamous ex strikes again? Let me guess—she’s rehashing the same story, twisting things to make Logan look bad, right?”

---