Page 25 of Taming the Grumpy Hockey Player

Logan looks up, his brows furrowing. “Which one?”

I pull up the page on my tablet and slide it across the table. He scans the screen, his jaw tightening as his eyes move over the text. When he finishes, he sets the tablet down with a sharp exhale.

“That’s a load of crap,” he mutters. “You’re not leveraging anything.”

I shrug, the weight of his frustration pressing against my own. “Maybe not intentionally, but?—”

“Stop,” he interrupts, his tone sharper than I’ve ever heard it. “You’re not using me, Lucy. You’re doing this for the shelter, for the animals. Anyone who knows you can see that.”

“But what about the people who don’t know me?” I counter, my voice rising slightly. “What about the ones who read this and think?—”

“Who cares what they think?” Logan snaps, standing abruptly. Lewis flinches at the motion, and Logan immediately crouches to rub the dog’s head. “Sorry, buddy,” he murmurs before straightening and looking at me again. His tone is calmer now but no less intense. “Why are you letting this get to you?”

“Because it’s not just about me,” I say, my voice quieter. “It’s about the shelter. If people think this campaign is built on something fake, it could ruin everything.”

Logan runs a hand through his hair, his fingers threading through the strands in a deliberate motion, as if searching for the right words to bridge the growing tension in the room. His shoulders tense, a visible sign of the weight he’s carrying. “Lucy,the people who matter know the truth. Don’t let some hack journalist make you doubt yourself.”

His words linger, heavy with sincerity, but the tension in my chest doesn’t ease. “I just… I need some time to think,” I say finally, standing and moving toward the back door.

Logan watches me for a moment, his jaw working like he’s holding back more words. Finally, he nods. “Alright.”

He clips Lewis’s leash to his collar and heads for the door. Just before stepping out, he pauses, his back to me. “For what it’s worth, Lucy… you’re doing something amazing here. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me standing in the middle of the shelter, the article open on the desk and my thoughts more tangled than ever.

That evening, I curl up on the couch with a mug of tea, the tablet balanced precariously on my lap. Against my better judgment, I’ve ventured into the article’s comment section, and it’s a mixed bag of opinions.

“Logan’s come a long way. It’s good to see him doing something meaningful.”

“Typical small-town manager riding a celebrity’s coattails. She probably planned the whole thing just to get close to him.”

The second comment cuts deeper than I want to admit. My fingers tighten around the mug, the warmth seeping into my palms as I try to push the words out of my mind. But they linger, feeding the doubts already gnawing at the edges of my confidence.

I set the tablet aside and lean back, staring at the ceiling. My chest feels heavy, as though the weight of the shelter’s future is pressing down on me. The article’s implications might be baseless, but they’ve planted a seed of uncertainty I can’t ignore.

For the first time in years, doubt creeps in, whispering that maybe I’ve taken on more than I can handle. And that thought terrifies me.

But then I think of Logan’s parting words, the quiet conviction in his voice as he told me I was doing something amazing. I hold onto that, fragile as it feels, and let it steady me. Tomorrow is another day, and I’ll find a way forward—for the shelter, for the animals, and maybe, just maybe, for me.

Chapter 18

Logan

The sun dips low in the sky, bathing the outdoor rink in soft golden light. The faint sound of skates slicing through the ice echoes across the expanse, mingling with the cool bite of the air against my skin. My skates slice through the ice as I chase the puck, the crisp air biting at my face. Mark and Ryan are on the ice with me, their shouts echoing across the quiet expanse. This is where I feel free, where everything else falls away. Usually. Today, the weight of the past week clings to me, heavy and persistent.

“Come on, Mitchell!” Mark yells, his stick slamming against the ice as he intercepts my pass. “What is this, peewee hockey?”

Ryan skates past, smirking. “He’s in his head again. Probably thinking about Lucy.”

I grit my teeth, driving the puck toward the net with enough force to send it flying past Ryan and into the goal. The sharp thwack reverberates in the still air, and Ryan throws his hands up in mock surrender. Mark skates over, resting on his stick with an infuriating grin, his breath visible in the crisp air as he tilts his head, an eyebrow arched in playful challenge.

“You’re not denying it,” Mark points out, his tone teasing but curious. “What’s the deal, man? You’ve been… distracted.”

“It’s nothing,” I mutter, but my tone is unconvincing, even to me.

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Nothing, huh? Because ever since Lucy came into the picture, you’ve been… I don’t know, tolerable? Like, almost human.”

Ryan snickers, skating in circles around us. I’d roll my eyes if they weren’t frustratingly close to the truth.

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