Page 21 of Taming the Grumpy Hockey Player

“Hungry, huh?” I mutter, grabbing his food. He wags his tail like I’ve just offered him a five-star meal, looking up at me with those big, trusting eyes.

If only life were that simple.

The sharp sound of skates cutting across the ice fills the arena, mingling with the rhythmic slap of pucks against the boards. Practice is in full swing, Coach Turner’s voice booming over the noise like a cannon. The rink is usually where I find clarity, where the cold air sharpens my focus and the sound of skates cutting the ice drowns out everything else. It’s like stepping into a space where nothing exists but the rhythm of movement and the echo of effort. But today, my thoughts are scattered, fragmented by too many competing voices in my head.

Jess is back in town, and the whispers about her have already started circling. I overheard them in the hallway before practice—fragments of sentences, her name wrapped up in speculation and judgment. It’s not just her return that bothers me; it’s what it drags with it. The headlines. The assumptions. The idea that no matter what I do now, I’m still the guy who couldn’t get his life together.

“Mitchell!” Coach’s voice snaps me back. He’s glaring from the sideline. “Eyes up, focus. You’re skating like your head’s in the clouds.”

“Got it,” I reply, forcing myself to reset. I push harder, faster, skating like I can outrun the weight in my chest. It works—for a while.

When practice finally wraps up, I’m drenched in sweat but feeling no closer to clarity. The usual locker room banter swirlsaround me, but I keep to myself, methodically untying my skates. Mark, of course, notices.

"Everything alright?" he asks, leaning against the locker across from me. His tone is light, but there’s a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“Yeah, just tired,” I reply. It’s not entirely a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.

Mark raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. “Well, try not to psych yourself out. You’ve got this.”

I nod, grateful for his confidence, even if I’m not sure I share it.

The community center is quieter today, the usual buzz replaced by the steady rhythm of preparation. Lucy and I are set up in one of the smaller conference rooms, laptops and notes scattered across the table. Lewis is curled up under the table, snoring softly, a peaceful counterpoint to the tension in my chest—a reminder of how much simpler life could be if I could see things through his eyes, always finding joy in the smallest moments.

“Alright,” Lucy says, scrolling through a draft post. “We’ve got player profiles, adoption success stories, and a solid social media schedule. But we still need something more personal. Something that shows the heart behind this.”

I hesitate. “What about Lewis? A story about how he’s settled in, what he’s brought to my life?”

Lucy’s eyes light up. “That’s perfect. A feature on you and Lewis. Your bond, his journey, what it means for the campaign.”

The idea feels...exposed. I’ve spent so much time guarding the parts of me that feel real, that letting people see them now feels risky. “What if people just see it as another PR stunt?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.

Lucy looks at me, her expression steady. “Then we make it real. People respond to authenticity, Logan. You don’t have to be perfect; you just have to be honest.”

Her confidence in me is disarming. It’s not just her words—it’s the way she says them, like she genuinely believes I’m capable of this. For a moment, I let myself believe it too.

“Alright,” I say finally. “But if this backfires, I’m holding you responsible.”

She grins, that spark of mischief I’ve come to associate with her lighting up her face. “Deal.”

The sponsor meeting is more formal than I’d like, the kind of setting that usually makes me want to run for the nearest exit. But Lucy’s in her element, her energy filling the room as she lays out the campaign’s progress and next steps. She speaks with a mix of passion and professionalism that draws everyone in, and I find myself watching her more than the presentation.

When she finishes, there’s a round of polite applause, and all eyes turn to me. I clear my throat, suddenly wishing I’d prepared more.

“Uh, yeah,” I begin, “so one idea we’ve been working on is a community hockey clinic. The team could host kids from around town, teach them some skills, and maybe incorporate the shelter—like a meet-and-greet with the adoptable animals.”

The sponsors exchange intrigued looks, and one of them nods. “That’s a strong angle. It ties everything together.”

Lucy’s beaming at me, and for the first time, I feel like I’m not completely out of my depth. Maybe I can do this after all.

The air is crisp as Lucy and I walk to the parking lot, the faint crunch of leaves underfoot mingling with the distant hum of passing cars. The evening sky is a tapestry of warm oranges anddeep purples, a serene backdrop that contrasts with the nervous energy still buzzing in my chest. Lewis trots happily between us, occasionally pausing to sniff at the earthy autumn scents, his tail wagging like a metronome of contentment. The sunset casts long shadows across the pavement, painting everything in hues of orange and gold.

“You handled that well,” Lucy says, nudging me with her elbow. “The clinic idea was genius.”

“Thanks,” I reply, my tone light. “But don’t let it go to your head. I’m still new to this whole ‘community engagement’ thing.”

She laughs, and the sound feels warmer than the autumn air. For a moment, it’s just us and the easy rhythm of the walk, and I can almost forget the noise that’s been haunting me all day.

But then Lewis grabs the end of Lucy’s scarf and starts tugging, his tail wagging like he’s just discovered the world’s greatest game. His eyes sparkle with mischief, and he lets out a playful growl, as if inviting us to join in the fun. Lucy bursts out laughing, her cheeks flushed as she tries to wrestle the scarf back, while I can’t help but grin at the sheer joy radiating from both of them.

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