Page 4 of Perfectly Grumpy

Jeneva cackles wickedly. “And Istillhaven’t told.” Then she sets her big red purse down and throws a few dollars on the counter. “So what is it this time? Did they forget to include the craft bazaar in the bulletin on Sunday?”

“You would know if you came to church more regularly,” Delilah says, tipping her head to the side sassily.

“I attend once a month,” Jeneva says, picking up her black coffee. “The good Lord knows church attendance isn’t getting anyone through the pearly gates.”

“You don’t stay for potluck, either.”

“Course not. I’ve got plans after church. I head to the VFW to play cards with the men.”

Delilah gasps. “Jeneva Mack! Chasing men at your age?”

“Darlin’, I’m not chasing. I’m just strolling along and letting them catch up,” she says with a wink.

Delilah adds another packet of artificial sweetener to her sweet tea. “Well, this news is about that fancy hockey gala last night.”

I perk up immediately. Because I was at that gala.

And as far as I know, everything went off without a hitch—VIP sponsors were schmoozed, donors were dazzled, and even the NHL commissioner and his wife showed up for the first time. The event is so important we require every player to attend because our biggest sponsors would trade their firstborn children for five minutes with the pros.

But if Delilah’s got that gleam in her eye, something definitely went sideways.

Fixing reputations is my specialty. I’ve been polishing tarnished images since high school, when I turned our resident bad-boy quarterback into a sympathetic hero with one carefully crafted story. I was all set to write an article calling him out on his party-boy behavior until he pulled me aside and asked me to consider a different angle. One that painted him as a misunderstood golden boy instead of a reckless screwup. And then he smiled at me—one of those ruin-your-judgment kind of grins.

That was the moment I realized how powerful the right story could be, and how dangerous it was to fall for the person behind it.

In exchange, he promised to take me to prom—a deal I thought was wildly generous at the time, because I wasn’t exactly known for racking up dates. So I agreed, writing a heartfelt story portraying him as a concerned teen dealing with his grandma’s declining health (it turned out to be low blood pressure, but who’s checking facts?) and how he coped by volunteering with sick kids (required community service—but no one needed to know that).

The story worked like magic. Instead of facing suspension,teachers patted his shoulder and told him they were praying for his grandma. The bad-boy reputation?Forgotten.

That’s when I realized something powerful:a well-told story could change everything.

Funny how I fixedhisstory, but my happy ending didn’t make it to the final draft.

Because even though he promised to take me to prom, what he actually meant was that he’d drop me off at the door while coupling up with someone else.

Lesson learned: never waste your PR magic on someone who doesn’t deserve a headline.

Now that I’ve moved up to a professional sports team, my job isn’t just cleaning up messes—it’s preventing them from making it past the group chat. And that’s why I’m desperate to hear the gossip about the hockey gala. Because it’s not just the players’ reputations on the line. It’s my job.

I lean closer, taking a sip of my coffee.

“Oh, girl,” Jeneva croons, fanning herself with a napkin. “I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall. Hockey hunks in suits? That’s more delicious than my homemade shoofly pie with extra molasses.”

“Well, rumor has it someone accidentally insulted the NHL commissioner’s wife without realizing who she was,” Delilah says, her eyes as big around as Jeneva’s hoop earrings.

“No! Who would be that dumb?” Jeneva gasps. “Was it Rourke? That man’s smirk promises to wreak havoc on your life—and his wink makes you want to let him.”

“That’s the shocking part. It wasn’t Rourke. It was the one with the glasses…” She pauses, and I lean forward at the same moment she whispers, “Tate Foster.”

“Sheriff?” Jeneva shrieks, so the whole coffee shop notices.

I gasp, bumping my iced coffee and sending it cascading across the table. “No, no, no!” I scramble to save my laptop, ice cubes skitteringto the floor.

“Oh, honey!” Delilah cries, spinning around. “Let me get some napkins!” She hustles over with a handful.

“Thanks,” I say, blotting at the coffee spill before turning to her with a grateful smile. I’m not letting this gossip train leave the station without me. “I’m so sorry to eavesdrop but”—I gently catch Delilah’s arm—“did you say something about Tate Foster? I’m the Crushers’ PR manager.”

Jeneva’s eyes twinkle like she’s just found buried treasure. “Well, if you’re the PR girl, you’re gonna have your work cut out for you.”

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