Page 10 of Taming the Grumpy Hockey Player

Logan

Lewis wakes me up the same way every morning: a wet nose nudging my hand, followed by an enthusiastic paw on my chest that leaves no room for negotiation. I groan, cracking one eye open, and find him sitting beside the bed, tail wagging like I’ve just promised him a lifetime supply of treats.

“You’re relentless,” I mutter, my voice gravelly with sleep. “Five more minutes.”

Lewis tilts his head, as if considering my request, before barking once—sharp and insistent.

“Fine, fine. I’m up,” I say, pushing myself upright. The room is chilly, but Lewis doesn’t care. He’s already heading for the door, glancing back at me like he’s reminding me to hurry up.

By the time I’ve thrown on sweats and a hoodie, Lewis is practically vibrating with excitement, his tail wagging so hard it blurs and his paws bouncing as if the sheer energy coursing through him can’t be contained. We step outside into the crisp morning air, the quiet of Pine Harbor still lingering before the town wakes up. The routine is simple. We walk through the neighborhood, stop at the park for him to sniff every tree and bush, and then head back home for breakfast. But somehow, it’sbecome a steady reminder to pause and breathe in the midst of everything.

I never thought I’d be the kind of guy who needed a dog, let alone one that bounces through life like everything is a grand adventure. But Lewis has a way of making even the mundane moments feel lighter, like he’s dragging me out of my own head whether I like it or not. And, admittedly, I don’t hate it.

When I’m on the road for games, Emma watches him. She’s always happy to help, her voice bright when I call to check in. “Lewis is a dream, Logan,” she’ll say. “He even helped me bake cookies yesterday. Well, sort of.”

The first time I left him with her, I told myself it was just practical. I couldn’t take him with me, and she was the obvious choice. But halfway through that trip, I caught myself missing him—the way he’d sit at my feet while I watched game footage, the way he’d nudge me with his nose when he wanted attention. It’s ridiculous, really. Missing a dog? But then again, Lewis isn’t just a dog. He’s the one constant in a life that often feels anything but steady, reminding me that maybe I’m not as alone as I think. He’s…something more. A companion. A buffer between me and the noise in my own head.

When I get home after those trips, the way he greets me—spinning in circles, tail wagging so hard it looks like it might detach—makes me wonder how I ever thought I didn’t need this in my life.

It’s after practice one afternoon when I find myself alone with Lewis in the community center lounge. Most of the team has cleared out, but I stayed behind to review some notes from Coach. Now, it’s just me, Lewis, and the faint hum of the vending machine in the corner.

I sit on a bench, Lewis flopped down beside me, his head resting on my lap, the weight of it steady and warm, his fur softbeneath my fingertips. My hand moves absently over his ears, the repetitive motion soothing.

“You know, buddy,” I say quietly, “I don’t know why you like me so much.” Lewis’s ears twitch, and I let out a humorless laugh. “I mean, I’m not exactly the most lovable guy. Grumpy, they call me. Or worse. But you? You just…show up. Like none of it matters.”

He sighs, a contented sound, and I shake my head. “I wish people were more like you. They’d see past the mistakes. Past the headlines. But no. Once a screw-up, always a screw-up, right?”

The words hang in the air, heavier than I’d intended, as if I’d peeled back a layer of myself I wasn’t ready to share. The vulnerability feels foreign, uncomfortable, but somehow, in Lewis’s quiet presence, it feels safe enough to linger. I’m not used to saying this stuff out loud, even to a dog. But there’s something about Lewis’s quiet, unwavering presence that makes it easier.

“You think they’ll ever let me be someone else?” I ask, more to myself than to him. Lewis lifts his head slightly, his big, trusting eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, the weight in my chest feels a little lighter.

“You’re really good at that,” a voice says, startling me. I look up to see Lucy standing in the doorway, her green eyes wide but not judgmental.

I straighten, my hand freezing mid-scratch on Lewis’s head. “How long have you been there?”

She steps inside, her expression soft. “Long enough. But don’t worry, I’m not here to eavesdrop. I just came to grab some supplies.”

I nod, trying to act like it doesn’t bother me that she overheard any of that. “Didn’t realize I had an audience.”

Lucy smiles, that sunshine-filled smile that always throws me off balance. “Lewis really is a great listener. You’re lucky to have him.”

Her words are simple, but there’s something in her tone—gentle yet knowing—that feels understanding, like she sees more than I want her to. Her gaze lingers briefly, warm and unintrusive, before she turns away, leaving me with the unsettling feeling of being truly seen. She doesn’t push, though. Doesn’t ask questions or make comments. She just grabs the supplies she needs and heads for the door.

“See you at the next meeting,” she says over her shoulder, her voice light.

“Yeah,” I reply, my tone gruff but not unkind.

When she’s gone, I lean back against the bench, staring down at Lewis. “Well,” I mutter, “that was…unexpected.”

Lewis wags his tail, as if he agrees.

Later that evening, as I sit on my couch with Lewis sprawled out beside me, I can’t shake the encounter with Lucy. The way she looked at me—not with pity, but with quiet insight—it’s like she saw through the walls I’ve spent years building. And instead of pointing them out or trying to tear them down, she just…let me be. It’s unsettling and oddly comforting all at once. She’d walked in on a moment I’d normally keep buried, and instead of making it awkward or teasing me, she’d just…been there. Present. Understanding.

I’ve never met someone like her before. Someone who doesn’t pry but somehow still sees more than they should. It’s disarming, honestly. And maybe that’s why it sticks with me.

For all her sunshine and sarcasm, Lucy Hart isn’t naive. She’s not blind to the rough edges people carry. But instead of judging them for it, she just seems to…accept it.

I glance at Lewis, who’s snoring softly now. “What do you think, bud?” I ask, my voice quiet. “Maybe she’s not so bad.”

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