Page 23 of Taming the Grumpy Hockey Player

“I knew it!” she exclaims, her excitement bubbling over. “That man has been looking at you like you hung the moon for weeks. So, what now?”

I shrug, the weight of uncertainty settling over me. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. What if this… thing between us ruins everything we’ve worked for? And what if he decides Pine Harbor isn’t enough for him? What if he leaves?”

Kate’s expression softens, her eyebrows drawing together slightly and her hand resting briefly on mine, as if to steady me. “Lucy, you’ve built something incredible here, but it’s not all on your shoulders. Logan’s not your dad, and you’re not that little girl waiting for someone to come back. You’re stronger than that, and he’d be an idiot to walk away from you.”

Her words hit me harder than I expect, and I blink back the sudden sting of tears. “You really think so?”

Kate grins, nudging me with her elbow. “I know so. And if he’s smart enough to see what’s right in front of him, he’ll stick around. But even if he doesn’t, you’ll be okay. You always are.”

The shelter is quiet as I lock up for the night, the animals settled into their routines. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a text from Logan:So, we haven’t set a time for our dinner yet. How about tomorrow? Brainstorming session?

A smile tugs at my lips as I type back a quick reply:Sounds good. Usual spot?

His response is immediate:Can’t wait.

As I step outside, the cool air wraps around me, sharp and bracing, carrying with it the faint scent of damp leaves and distant woodsmoke. The horizon glows with the soft, amber light of the setting sun, casting long shadows that stretch across the parking lot. Gravel crunches beneath my boots with each step, the sound grounding me in the moment. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I’m standing on solid ground. I don’t have all the answers, but maybe I don’t need them right now. Maybe it’s enough to take things one step at a time, to let trust build and see where it leads.

And as I walk to my car, the thought of tomorrow’s dinner fills me with something I haven’t felt in years: hope.

Chapter 16

Logan

The locker room buzzes with energy, the roar of the crowd still ringing faintly in my ears. The sharp smell of sweat mixes with the faint chill lingering from the rink, a sensory reminder of the game’s intensity. Tonight’s game was intense, every shift and shot feeling like another step forward—not just for the team, but for me. The crowd’s cheers were deafening, a mixture of stomping feet and jubilant shouts that reverberated through the ice, fueling every move. Even now, adrenaline hums beneath my skin, but my thoughts are split, lingering somewhere else. Somewhere off the ice.

Lucy.

The memory of last night’s dinner with her sneaks in again, uninvited but not unwelcome. I can’t stop replaying the way she leaned forward, eyes sparkling as she described the shelter’s plans, or how her laugh seemed to fill the room with warmth. It wasn’t just about what we talked about—it was about the way she made everything feel lighter, easier, as if being with her made all the noise in my head fade away. It wasn’t just the campaign plans or the brainstorming that stuck with me. It was her. The way she lit up talking about the shelter’s success, how her laugh softened the room’s edges, how she made me forget, even briefly,the weight of expectations I’ve carried for so long. Being around her feels easy in a way I hadn’t expected. Maybe too easy.

“Mitchell! Stop zoning out and join the party,” Mark’s voice cuts through the noise, followed by a balled-up towel that smacks my shoulder. He’s grinning, his energy infectious.

I shoot him a glare, but there’s no heat behind it. “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, grabbing the towel and tossing it back. It lands near his feet, and he laughs before diving back into a story with Ryan about one of the plays.

As the locker room revelry continues, I pack up my gear, the noise fading into the background. Tonight’s game was a win—on paper, in the crowd’s eyes, and even for the team’s morale. But there’s something else stirring, a feeling I’m not quite ready to name. As much as I try to keep my focus on hockey and the campaign, Lucy’s smile keeps pulling me back.

The Pine Harbor Ice Arena was electric tonight, the kind of game you dream about. Every pass and every shot felt sharper. Each cheer from the crowd grew louder, like the entire town was alive with the game. My skates cut into the ice with precision, the chill biting at my face as I drove forward. The sound of sticks clashing and bodies hitting the boards blended into a rhythm that’s become second nature over the years.

I glanced toward the stands at one point, and there she was. Lucy. She was bundled in a coat, her cheeks pink from the cold, her eyes following every move on the ice. Something about knowing she was there made me push harder, skate faster. I don’t know if it’s because I wanted to impress her or because her presence felt like a quiet vote of confidence, but when I set up the game-winning assist, the satisfaction hit differently. It wasn’t just about the team or the fans. It was about her seeing me—all of me—in my element.

By the time the final buzzer sounded, the weight in my chest had lifted, replaced by something lighter. As I skated off, I caught her clapping, her smile bright enough to cut through the rink’s chill. It’s strange, the things you notice when someone starts to matter.

The community center is packed for the post-game reception. The air hums with conversation, punctuated by the clinking of glasses and the occasional laugh. The scent of catered finger foods and freshly brewed coffee fills the space, mingling with the faint metallic tang of hockey gear lingering from the game. It’s the kind of event I used to dread—small talk, sponsors, all eyes on me. But tonight feels different. Lighter.

Lewis stays close to my side, his wagging tail drawing attention from kids and adults alike. He pauses every so often to nuzzle into an outstretched hand or lick a child’s fingers, eliciting giggles and delighted smiles, his warmth spreading through the crowd like ripples in water. He’s become as much a part of the campaign as Lucy or me, a four-legged ambassador who makes the room feel less overwhelming. A fan stops me as I make my way through the crowd, clapping me on the back with an enthusiastic, “Great game tonight, Mitchell!”

I nod, offering a polite “Thanks” and a small smile. These interactions used to feel like a performance, a role I had to play to keep up appearances. But now, they feel more natural. I’m not sure if it’s the campaign, Lewis, or Lucy’s influence, but something’s shifted. I’m starting to feel like myself again.

Across the room, Lucy’s surrounded by a group of sponsors and volunteers. She’s animated as she talks, her hands moving expressively, her laugh cutting through the chatter like music. Even from a distance, she commands the space—not in the calculated way Jess used to, with her rehearsed smiles andcarefully curated charm, but with a genuine energy that feels effortless and sincere. Lucy’s warmth isn’t about impressing anyone; it’s about connecting, making everyone in her orbit feel seen and valued. She’s not performing. She’s just being Lucy. And it’s impossible not to watch her.

Mark sidles up beside me, balancing a plate of appetizers. “She’s good, isn’t she?” he says, following my gaze.

“Yeah,” I admit, unable to tear my eyes away. “She is.”

Mark grins knowingly, nudging me with his elbow. “You’ve got it bad, Mitchell.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, but my tone is light. Because he’s not wrong.

When the crowd starts to thin, I finally make my way over to Lucy. She’s mid-conversation with Mayor Collins, her face glowing with the kind of excitement that only comes from talking about something you love. When she sees me, her smile softens, shifting from professional to something warmer. Something just for me.

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