Page 22 of Taming the Grumpy Hockey Player

“Lewis!” Lucy yelps, trying to wrestle the scarf back. “You little thief!”

I laugh, stepping in to help. “Looks like someone’s taking his ‘mascot’ duties a little too seriously.”

We manage to free the scarf, and Lucy shakes her head, still laughing. “He’s lucky he’s cute.”

“Must be a theme,” I tease, earning an exaggerated eye-roll and a playful shove.

That night, as I sit on the couch with Lewis curled up beside me, I can’t help but replay the day. The weight of the day’s eventslingers in my chest, but so does something lighter—something hopeful. The meeting was a step forward, but it’s more than that. It’s Lucy. It’s the way she sees me, not as the guy tangled up in whispers and headlines, but as someone capable of more. Her faith in me feels like an anchor, keeping me steady even when the noise threatens to pull me under. For the first time, I feel like the version of myself I want to be isn’t so far out of reach. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once. The meeting, the walk, Lucy’s confidence in me—it all feels like progress. Like maybe, for the first time in a long while, I’m moving forward.

My phone buzzes with a text from Lucy: Dinner sometime soon? Brainstorming session?

I smile, typing out a quick reply before glancing at Lewis. “What do you think, buddy? Am I in over my head?”

Lewis thumps his tail in response, and I chuckle. “Yeah, me too.”

But maybe, just maybe, this isn’t such a bad idea after all.

Chapter 15

Lucy

The steady hum of Cozy Paws shelters me as I run through the morning’s tasks. Sunlight streams through the wide windows, casting golden squares across the tile floor that seem to glow against the pale tiles. The warmth of the sunlight enhances the room’s colors, making the bright blues of the animal beds and the soft greens of the walls feel more alive and welcoming. The back kennels echo with the excited barks of dogs, a vibrant contrast to the soft, rhythmic purring of contented cats in their cozy corners. It’s a symphony of life and energy that pulses through the shelter, grounding me in its steady rhythm. Amid the noise and movement, I find a sense of focus, a reprieve from the whirlwind of emotions tugging at the edges of my thoughts.

I lean against the counter, glancing at the clipboard in my hand. New volunteer schedules, food inventory… and the unexpected arrival of a stray dog this morning. He’s a small thing—a wiry terrier mix with a scrappy coat and wary eyes that dart around the room, as if he’s sizing up every corner for an escape route. His tiny body trembles slightly, and it’s impossible not to notice how his scruffy ears perk up at the faintest sound, a mix of curiosity and caution. His tagless collar offered no clues,and while his tail wags cautiously when I approach, his posture screams distrust.

I crouch in front of his crate, holding out a small treat. “Hey there, buddy,” I murmur. He eyes the treat, then me, before inching forward to take it. “Good boy. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

He reminds me of some of the animals we’ve had over the years—frightened, uncertain, but resilient. As I watch him chew, his thin frame shaking slightly, a pang of something deeper twists in my chest. Maybe it’s because his wide, searching eyes remind me of how I felt after Dad died. Untethered. Alone. And as much as I hate to admit it, it’s also how I feel about Logan.

The thought catches me off guard, and I stand abruptly, brushing imaginary dust off my jeans. It’s ridiculous to compare him to a stray, yet I can’t help but feel a flicker of recognition in his wary eyes—a reflection of my own guarded heart, protecting itself from wounds that haven’t fully healed. Logan is confident, capable, and so self-assured it’s infuriating. But beneath all that strength, I’ve seen glimpses of something more—vulnerability, maybe. A need to prove himself. And lately, I can’t stop wondering if I’m a little like this dog, keeping my walls up to protect myself from something I can’t control.

Dad’s absence has been the backdrop of my life for so long that I rarely think about how it shaped me. But in the quiet moments, it hits me like a wave—the emptiness he left behind and the way it forced me to grow up too quickly. It’s like a shadow that never fully fades, shaping every decision I make, every fear I carry. And now, with Logan, I can feel the same old fear creeping in, whispering that letting someone in only means risking that loss all over again. But when I do, it’s always tied to this feeling: the ache of losing someone and the fear of it happening again. It’s why I’ve always kept people at a distance, why I throw myself into the shelter. And now, with Logan… Idon’t know. I’m scared of what might happen if I let myself care too much.

By mid-afternoon, I’ve made some progress. The terrier, who I’ve dubbed Scrappy for now, has a full belly and a cozy blanket in his crate. I’ve also set up a missing pet alert and contacted local vets to see if anyone’s reported him missing. As I type out the details, a sense of satisfaction settles over me. This is what I’m good at—fixing things, solving problems, taking care of those who can’t take care of themselves.

It’s a stark contrast to how I feel about Logan. There’s no clear path forward, no easy answers. Just a tangle of emotions I’m not ready to untangle. But as I glance at Scrappy, I wonder if maybe there’s something to be learned here. Trust takes time. Healing takes time. And maybe that’s okay.

By the time I leave the shelter for a quick coffee break, the crisp autumn air has turned colder, a hint of winter creeping in. I sip my latte, scrolling through updates for the campaign. Logan and Lewis’s feature story has been scheduled for posting tomorrow, and I can’t help but smile at the thought of how far both of them have come. Logan’s transformation has been gradual, but it’s undeniable.

I pause, staring at the screen. Is that part of why I’m drawn to him? His ability to grow, to adapt, to embrace something new even when it scares him? And then there’s the other part—the way his presence steadies me, the way his rare smiles feel like little victories, the way he looks at me like he sees something I don’t.

But there’s a risk in all this. If I fall for Logan—really fall—and he leaves, what then? It’s not just the campaign that could crumble; it’s the sense of control I’ve fought so hard to build since Dad’s death. The fear lingers, a gnawing ache that whispers I’ll never quite be enough to make someone stay. The thought tightens my chest, the weight of it pressing down until I forcemyself to take a deep breath. I shake it off, refocusing on the work in front of me. There’s too much at stake to let emotions cloud my judgment, even if part of me longs to believe he’d never walk away.

Kate stops by the shelter late in the afternoon, her usual energy lighting up the room. She carries a bag of takeout and sets it on the counter with a flourish. “Emergency rations for my favorite shelter manager,” she announces.

I laugh despite myself. “Thanks, Kate. You’re a lifesaver.”

She studies me closely, her playful grin softening. “Okay, spill. You’ve got that look—like your brain is stuck in overdrive. Campaign stress? Or is this about a certain tall, brooding hockey player?”

“Do I have to pick one?” I reply, trying to deflect, but Kate isn’t having it.

“Lucy, you’ve been running yourself ragged for weeks. Take a breath. What’s really going on?”

I sigh, leaning against the counter. “Kate, Logan and I… kissed.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I immediately glance at her face for a reaction.

Her eyes widen, and she practically squeals, clapping her hands together. “No way! You and Logan? Finally! Okay, spill everything. When? Where? Was it good?”

“Kate,” I groan, though a small smile tugs at my lips. “It just… happened. It was after the rally, in the middle of all the excitement. And yes, it was… really good.”

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