Page 29 of Taming the Grumpy Hockey Player

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see Coach’s name on the screen. My stomach tightens slightly as I answer. “Hey, Coach.”

“Mitchell,” he says, his tone brisk but not unkind. “You’ve been making great strides lately. Really solid work.”

“Thanks,” I reply, unsure where this is going.

“Listen, I’ve got something in the works,” he continues. “An opportunity that could be big for you. We’ll talk details tomorrow, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

“What kind of opportunity?” I ask, curiosity and apprehension swirling in equal measure.

“Let’s just say it’s something that could take your career to the next level,” he says cryptically. “Get some rest. We’ll go over everything in the morning.”

As the call ends, I slip my phone back into my pocket, my thoughts racing. Whatever Coach has planned, it’s clear that it’s a big deal. But as I glance down at Lewis trotting happily beside me, my thoughts drift back to Lucy. To us.

When I reach my apartment, the quiet of the night settles around me. I pause on the front steps, looking up at the star-scattered sky. For the first time in years, I’m not just looking forward to tomorrow. I’m hopeful for it.

The stars above feel like tiny beacons, reflecting the possibility I feel deep in my chest—for my career, for this town, for Lucy. I’ve come a long way since this all started, and for the first time, I’m not just moving forward. I’m building something worth staying for.

Chapter 21

Logan

The Pine Harbor Ice Arena is alive with the kind of energy that can’t be replicated. The championship game. It’s more than just another match—it’s a culmination of everything this team, this town, and I have fought for. The crowd roars, a deafening wave of sound, every cheer and chant echoing off the rafters like a collective heartbeat. The Timberwolves jerseys blur together in a sea of red and blue, their colors reflecting the pride and passion of Pine Harbor. Tonight, it’s not just about the game. It’s about proving that we’ve earned this moment.

I step onto the ice, and the sharp scrape of my skates grounds me, a satisfying sound that feels like a promise of control amid the chaos of the game. The cold bites at my face, but it’s a familiar kind of sting—a reminder that I’m exactly where I need to be. My heart pounds in time with the fans stomping in the stands, their excitement fueling the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

As the puck drops, everything else fades. The opening shifts are fast and brutal, both teams testing each other with relentless intensity. Every play is a battle, every pass a calculated risk. The boards shake with the impact of bodies colliding, and the sharpcrack of sticks against the puck reverberates through the arena. This is what I live for—the chaos, the grit, the precision of it all.

Midway through the first period, I glance at the stands during a quick stoppage. And there she is—Lucy. She’s standing in the front row, bundled in her green scarf, her hands clasped tightly like she’s willing the game to go our way. Her eyes meet mine for a brief second, and even from here, I can see her smile. It’s enough to send a warmth through me that has nothing to do with the game. For her, I’ll leave everything on the ice.

By the second period, the score is tied 2-2. The game is tight, every shift pushing us closer to the edge. I’m battling in the corner for the puck, my body braced against a defender pressing me hard against the boards. The weight of him doesn’t matter; I dig in, pivoting to shield the puck before firing it up the ice to Mark. He’s ready. His slap shot cuts through the air like a bullet, slamming into the back of the net.

The crowd explodes, their cheers washing over me in a tidal wave of sound that reverberates through my chest, heightening my adrenaline with every vibration. Mark skates by, grinning as he slaps my stick. “That’s how we do it, Mitchell!”

I grin back, my chest heaving as I catch my breath. “Let’s keep it up,” I shout, already preparing for the next shift.

The final period is nothing short of chaos. My muscles burn, my lungs ache, and the weight of the game presses down on me with every shift. With less than two minutes left, the score is tied again, 3-3. The opposing team pulls their goalie, leaving the net empty as they push for a last-minute goal. The pressure is suffocating, but I’ve trained for moments like this. My focus narrows to the puck, the ice, and the players around me.

The puck ricochets off the boards, landing near my stick. I grab it and skate hard, my legs screaming as I push past defenders. The empty net looms ahead, and time seems to slowas I wind up my shot. My stick connects cleanly, and the puck slides across the ice, curving just slightly before it hits the mark.

Goal.

The arena erupts into pandemonium. The goal horn blares, and my teammates swarm me, their sticks clattering against mine in celebration. The final buzzer sounds, and just like that, we’ve done it. We’ve won.

The trophy presentation feels like a dream. The silver cup glints under the arena lights as our captain lifts it high, the crowd’s cheers deafening. When the microphone is passed to me, I take a deep breath, the weight of the moment settling over me.

“I just want to say thank you,” I begin, my voice carrying over the noise. “To my teammates, for giving everything they had tonight. To the fans, for always having our backs. And to this community, for showing us what it means to be part of something bigger than ourselves.”

The crowd roars, but I hold up a hand, signaling for quiet. My gaze drifts to the front row, where Lucy stands with her hands pressed together, her eyes shining.

“There’s someone else I need to thank,” I continue, my voice steady but full of emotion. “Lucy Hart. This campaign started as a way to give back, to rebuild. But it became so much more because of her. Lucy, you’ve shown me what real courage and compassion look like. You believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself, and you reminded me that it’s never too late to be the person you want to be. So thank you—for everything.”

The crowd erupts again, but all I see is her. Lucy’s face is flushed, her expression a mix of surprise and something deeper. I step off the ice as the celebration continues, weaving through the throngs of fans and players until I reach her.

“Logan,” she says, her voice barely audible over the noise. “That was…”

“True,” I finish for her, reaching for her hand. “Every word.”

Her eyes search mine, and for a moment, the world around us fades. “You really mean it?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly.

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