Page 3 of Perfectly Grumpy

My vote is for Leo the “Ego” Anderson. A semi-reformed hothead, thanks to his figure skating girlfriend, Victoria.

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Only man I trust to babysit my future children is Brax “Big Mac” MacPherson. Would take a puck to the face for his wife, Jaz, and she’d probably be the one to stitch him up.

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“Mr. Fix It” Lucian Lowe. Possibly an actual cinnamon roll in a human man’s body.

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Has anyone figured out what’s actually going on with the new goalie, Miles? Because he has “emotionally guarded hero” written all over him.

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Rourke is charming—in the “your parents would hate him” way.

I swipe through post after post until I get to the one player who’s a rule-follower to his core with an advanced degree in exasperating me.

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You guys are totally sleeping on the quiet one. “Sheriff” Tate Foster. Logical, broody, and rocking serious hot-professor vibes. Have you seen his dimples? He doesn’t smile often, but when he does…life-changing.

And unfortunately, I can confirm. His dimples are stupidly handsome in a way that’s personally inconvenient. Dark eyes behind those glasses, the rolled-up sleeves folded perfectly to show off forearms that look like Michelangelo sculpted them, that rarely seen smile that melts common sense faster than ice cream in July.

Tate is a paradox. The guy who turns in his player media packet early, argues about the Oxford comma, and grumbles his way through every PR ask. And yet, he’s the one I watch most closely.

Because in my experience, the quiet ones are usually the ones who blow up your whole life.

And I have a feeling Tate Foster is just one headline away from becoming my next PR day terror.

As I skim the hockey Reddit boards, the click of heels cuts through the morning chatter.

Jeneva Mack strolls into the cafe like she owns it, her silver cropped curls a striking contrast against her brown skin. Jeneva wears loud colors, big jewelry, and even bigger opinions.

She waves to Delilah, Sully’s Beach’s resident sweetheart and self-appointed prayer chain coordinator, who waits next to the counter, sipping sweet tea and pretending she’s never heard a swear word in her life. Which is impressive, considering she owns a foul-mouthed parrot named Big Bertha, who curses like a sailor and somehow still gets invited to church potlucks.

Delilah insists everything can be solved with homemade brownies, even when what’s needed is a come-to-Jesus talk, followed by a few choice insults by Big Bertha.

They couldn’t be more different, but there’s onething they always agree on: Sully’s Beach gossip is a gift to be shared, and they are its most generous messengers.

“Oh, Delilah,” Jeneva says, looking over Delilah’s outfit. “You wore white again? That’s optimism I don’t have.”

“Well, I believe in being optimistic,” Delilah says.

“Mm-hmm. And I believe in zero filters, which is why I’m telling you your underwear is as clear as day in the back of those pants. You trying to catch a man or what?”

Delilah’s cheeks turn as pink as her cotton-candy lipstick. “I most certainly am not!”

“Good,” Jeneva says. “Because those granny panties aren’t exactly reeling them in.”

“Mywhat?” Delilah twists like she’s trying to get a rear view but gives up. “I didn’t come here to discuss my”—she lowers her voice to a near whisper—“undergarments.”

She glances around, then leans in, hands wringing like she’s torn between telling Jeneva some news or submitting it to the church prayer chain first. “You wouldn’t believe what I heard this morning. And you have to promise not to tell.”

“Oh, girl, I won’t tell,” Jeneva says. “I’ve kept the secret about who got caught skinny-dipping in the lake at church camp since 1974.”

Delilah frowns. “Wasn’t thatyou?”

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