Page 17 of Taming the Grumpy Hockey Player

Later that day, I find myself at the open-air market, soaking in the crisp autumn air and the scent of fresh bread and flowers. My mind keeps circling back to Logan—his guardedness, quietstrength, and how Lewis draws out a side of him I didn’t expect. It’s overwhelming to process.

“You’re doing that thing again,” a familiar voice says.

I turn to see Logan standing a few feet away, a paper bag in one hand and Lewis at his side. The dog wags his tail, clearly thrilled to see me.

“What thing?” I ask, trying to play it cool.

“The thing where you overthink everything and make it look like you’re plotting a world takeover,” he teases. “Step one: buy all the pastries?”

I laugh, the tension in my chest easing. “You caught me. World domination requires carbs.”

“Well, good luck,” he says, holding up his bag. “I’ve already cleared out half the bakery.”

Lewis happily trots between us as we stroll through the market. Teasing and banter flow easily, but before long, the mood shifts.

As we wander through the market, Logan suddenly speaks up, his voice quieter than usual. “You know, this campaign… it’s been bringing up some stuff I’d rather forget.”

Logan exhales, his gaze drifting to Lewis, who’s eagerly tugging his leash toward a stall with freshly baked biscuits. “It’s not the campaign itself. It’s the visibility. This whole thing—posting pictures, sharing stories—it’s fine in theory, but it stirs up memories of how things went south before.”

I tilt my head, curious. “South how?”

He hesitates, then meets my eyes. “My ex. She turned everything we did into content—every date, every moment, it all became part of her image. She spun this whole ‘power couple’ narrative online, but it wasn’t real. It was all for her followers, her sponsorships. And when it ended, she used it against me. Twisted everything to make herself look better.”

“That’s awful,” I say, genuinely appalled. “Like she used you as a stepping stone.”

Logan nods, his jaw tight. “Pretty much. And now, with this campaign, I can’t help but worry. What if this gets twisted too? What if the focus isn’t on the shelter or the team, but on whatever baggage I bring to the table?”

I stop walking and face him. “Logan, this campaign isn’t about her. It’s about you, the team, and these incredible animals. You’re not the same person you were back then, and you don’t owe anyone the version of you they think they know.”

He looks at me, something raw and grateful in his expression. “Thanks, Lucy. That means more than you know.”

The community center feels quieter this evening, the hum of activity giving way to focused preparation for our next event. Logan and I are spread out at one of the long tables, going over the logistics. It’s surprising how well we’ve settled into this rhythm—ideas flowing naturally, disagreements handled with an ease I never would have expected.

At one point, I catch Logan watching me as I jot down notes. “What?” I ask, glancing up.

He shrugs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing. Just…you’re really good at this. Bringing people together. Making all of this work.”

“It’s not just me,” I reply. “You’ve been doing a pretty good job yourself.”

“Maybe we make a good team,” he says.

“Maybe we do,” I agree softly, my heart fluttering at the warmth in his voice.

Later, as I sit on my porch with a cup of tea, I replay the day’s events in my mind. The market, the community center, the quiet moments with Logan…all of it feels like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. I catch myself lingering on the way he opened up today, his voice quiet but steady as he talked about his past.There’s something about him—the guardedness, the unexpected humor, and that steady presence—that draws me in more than I’d like to admit.

A flicker of doubt creeps in as I wonder if I’m reading too much into things. It feels ridiculous to even entertain the thought of…well, liking him. But then I think of the way he looked at me earlier, raw and honest, and the way he’s been with Lewis—so patient and genuine. Those aren’t the actions of someone pretending. Maybe, just maybe, there’s more to this than I’m willing to let myself believe.

I shake my head, a quiet laugh escaping at my tendency to overthink. It’s too soon to make anything of it, and I have enough on my plate without adding more complications. Still, the thought lingers, warm and fragile. For the first time in a long while, I let myself imagine what could be—not just for the shelter or the campaign, but for us.

It’s a fragile hope, but it’s there. And for now, that’s enough.

Chapter 12

Logan

The café is unusually quiet for a Saturday morning, the soft clinking of cups and the low hum of conversation blending seamlessly with the comforting aroma of fresh coffee. The air smells faintly of cinnamon and nutmeg, a reminder that fall has fully settled over Pine Harbor. I chose this place because it feels neutral—safe. A park bench or the community center might have felt too personal. Here, the noise and the bustle act as a barrier, an easy excuse if I need an exit.

I’m early, of course. Sitting near the window, I watch the orange and gold leaves blow across the street, an unsteady rhythm to their fall. The memory of her text flashes in my mind: Can we meet? I think we should talk. A year ago, I’d have dodged this meeting entirely. Now, I know there’s no moving forward until I’ve faced what’s behind me.

---