Page 26 of Taming the Grumpy Hockey Player

“It’s not her,” I insist, though the words feel hollow. “It’s everything else. The media, the scrutiny… it’s a lot.”

Mark’s grin fades, replaced by something more serious. “You’re letting it mess with your head. Don’t. You’ve got something good going with her. Don’t screw it up because of a few headlines.”

I’m about to snap back, but his words hit harder than I’d like to admit. He’s right—I’ve let my frustration boil over, and Lucy’s taken the brunt of it. That’s on me. I need to fix this.

Back home, Lewis greets me with his usual enthusiasm, bounding to the door like I’ve been gone for days, his paws skittering excitedly across the hardwood floor. I crouch to rub behind his ears, his wagging tail an instant comfort.

“Hey, buddy,” I murmur. “What would I do without you?”

He responds with a playful bark, nudging his nose against my hand. I chuckle, heading to the couch and pulling out my phone. I’ve been avoiding the latest round of articles, but the lingering doubt from Lucy’s reaction at the shelter won’t let me stay in the dark. Scrolling through the headlines, I’m met with the same mix of praise and skepticism. The words sting less than they used to, but the thought of Lucy’s name being dragged through the mud makes my blood boil.

Lewis paws at my leg, breaking me out of my thoughts. I look down at him, his wide, trusting eyes staring back. “You’re right,”I say, scratching behind his ears. “Time to stop sulking and fix this.”

The rink is quiet when I arrive, the sharp glow of the overhead lights reflecting off the freshly resurfaced ice. The faint hum of the overhead lights fills the space, mingling with the sharp scent of chilled air, creating an atmosphere both serene and electrifying. Lucy stands at the edge, her hands tucked into her coat pockets. She’s staring out at the rink, her profile illuminated by the soft light. My chest tightens at the sight of her—calm, steady, but carrying an air of guardedness I put there.

She hears the scrape of my skates and turns, her expression unreadable but her eyes flicker with something—a mix of hesitation and curiosity—as if she's bracing for whatever comes next. “Logan,” she says, her voice neutral. “What’s on your mind?”

I come to a stop a few feet away, the words I’ve been rehearsing suddenly feeling inadequate. “Thanks for meeting me,” I start. “I owe you an apology. For snapping at you. For letting my frustration spill over. None of that was fair to you.”

Her expression softens slightly, but she stays quiet, waiting for me to continue.

“The press, the scrutiny… I’m used to it. I’ve been dealing with it for years. But this time, it’s not just about me. It’s about you, the campaign, everything we’re building. And I hate that it’s affecting you because of my past.”

Lucy looks down, her gloved hands gripping the edge of the barrier as if searching for stability, her shoulders faintly trembling with the weight of her unspoken fears. “It’s not just about the press, Logan,” she says quietly. “It’s about how we face it. Together.”

The word hits me harder than I expect: together. It’s not something I’ve let myself believe in for a long time, but with her, it feels like the only way forward.

“I don’t want to lose this,” I admit, my voice steady. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Lucy’s eyes widen slightly, her breath catching. For a moment, I think I’ve said too much. But then she steps closer, her gaze locked on mine. “I don’t want to lose this either,” she says softly. “But I need to know you’re in this. Not just for the campaign, but for… us.”

“I am,” I say without hesitation. “Lucy, I’m all in. And I’ll do whatever it takes to prove that to you.”

We sit side by side on a wooden bench at the edge of the rink, the cold seeping through our coats but neither of us moving. Lucy looks down at her hands, her voice trembling slightly as she speaks.

“I’ve always been afraid of people leaving,” she confesses. “After my dad died, it felt like everything fell apart. I’ve spent so much time building walls, trying to protect myself from ever feeling that kind of loss again.”

Her words settle over me like a weight, and before I can think, I reach for her hand, wrapping my fingers around hers. “I’m not going anywhere,” I say firmly. “I can’t promise I’ll always get it right, but I’ll be here. For you. For us.”

Her eyes glisten as she looks at me, a small, tentative smile breaking through her vulnerability, and it strikes me how much courage it takes for her to share this with me. My chest tightens with a mix of admiration and resolve, the weight of her trust grounding me in the moment. “Thank you,” she whispers, her fingers tightening around mine.

The weight between us shifts, replaced by something lighter, something steady. For the first time, it feels like we’re on the same page, moving forward together.

As we walk back to our cars, the tension from earlier feels like a distant memory. The night is crisp, the stars scattered across the sky like tiny beacons. I glance at Lucy, her cheeks flushed from the cold, and an idea strikes me.

“By the way,” I say casually, “I’ve got something planned for the adoption event. A little surprise.”

Her eyes narrow, curiosity lighting up her face. “Should I be worried?”

I grin. “Not at all. Just trust me.”

Her laughter follows me as we part ways, the sound lingering in the air like a promise. It fills the quiet night, threading warmth into the crisp air, and for the first time in years, it feels like hope—a hope tied to her, to us. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Chapter 19

Lucy

The Pine Harbor Community Center is alive with energy. Conversation buzzes like electricity, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional enthusiastic bark. Brightly colored banners hang from the rafters, each featuring a Timberwolves player posing with their campaign dog. Tables line the walls, piled with adoption forms, campaign T-shirts, mugs emblazoned with Lewis’s face, and Cozy Paws pamphlets. The air is rich with the scent of popcorn and freshly baked cookies, courtesy of the concession stand run by local volunteers.

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