Page 16
Chapter 16
Logan
T he locker room buzzes with energy, the roar of the crowd still ringing faintly in my ears. The sharp smell of sweat mixes with the faint chill lingering from the rink, a sensory reminder of the game’s intensity. Tonight’s game was intense, every shift and shot feeling like another step forward—not just for the team, but for me. The crowd’s cheers were deafening, a mixture of stomping feet and jubilant shouts that reverberated through the ice, fueling every move. Even now, adrenaline hums beneath my skin, but my thoughts are split, lingering somewhere else. Somewhere off the ice.
Lucy.
The memory of last night’s dinner with her sneaks in again, uninvited but not unwelcome. I can’t stop replaying the way she leaned forward, eyes sparkling as she described the shelter’s plans, or how her laugh seemed to fill the room with warmth. It wasn’t just about what we talked about—it was about the way she made everything feel lighter, easier, as if being with her made all the noise in my head fade away. It wasn’t just the campaign plans or the brainstorming that stuck with me. It was her. The way she lit up talking about the shelter’s success, how her laugh softened the room’s edges, how she made me forget, even briefly, the weight of expectations I’ve carried for so long. Being around her feels easy in a way I hadn’t expected. Maybe too easy.
“Mitchell! Stop zoning out and join the party,” Mark’s voice cuts through the noise, followed by a balled-up towel that smacks my shoulder. He’s grinning, his energy infectious.
I shoot him a glare, but there’s no heat behind it. “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, grabbing the towel and tossing it back. It lands near his feet, and he laughs before diving back into a story with Ryan about one of the plays.
As the locker room revelry continues, I pack up my gear, the noise fading into the background. Tonight’s game was a win—on paper, in the crowd’s eyes, and even for the team’s morale. But there’s something else stirring, a feeling I’m not quite ready to name. As much as I try to keep my focus on hockey and the campaign, Lucy’s smile keeps pulling me back.
The Pine Harbor Ice Arena was electric tonight, the kind of game you dream about. Every pass and every shot felt sharper. Each cheer from the crowd grew louder, like the entire town was alive with the game. My skates cut into the ice with precision, the chill biting at my face as I drove forward. The sound of sticks clashing and bodies hitting the boards blended into a rhythm that’s become second nature over the years.
I glanced toward the stands at one point, and there she was. Lucy. She was bundled in a coat, her cheeks pink from the cold, her eyes following every move on the ice. Something about knowing she was there made me push harder, skate faster. I don’t know if it’s because I wanted to impress her or because her presence felt like a quiet vote of confidence, but when I set up the game-winning assist, the satisfaction hit differently. It wasn’t just about the team or the fans. It was about her seeing me—all of me—in my element.
By the time the final buzzer sounded, the weight in my chest had lifted, replaced by something lighter. As I skated off, I caught her clapping, her smile bright enough to cut through the rink’s chill. It’s strange, the things you notice when someone starts to matter.
The community center is packed for the post-game reception. The air hums with conversation, punctuated by the clinking of glasses and the occasional laugh. The scent of catered finger foods and freshly brewed coffee fills the space, mingling with the faint metallic tang of hockey gear lingering from the game. It’s the kind of event I used to dread—small talk, sponsors, all eyes on me. But tonight feels different. Lighter.
Lewis stays close to my side, his wagging tail drawing attention from kids and adults alike. He pauses every so often to nuzzle into an outstretched hand or lick a child’s fingers, eliciting giggles and delighted smiles, his warmth spreading through the crowd like ripples in water. He’s become as much a part of the campaign as Lucy or me, a four-legged ambassador who makes the room feel less overwhelming. A fan stops me as I make my way through the crowd, clapping me on the back with an enthusiastic, “Great game tonight, Mitchell!”
I nod, offering a polite “Thanks” and a small smile. These interactions used to feel like a performance, a role I had to play to keep up appearances. But now, they feel more natural. I’m not sure if it’s the campaign, Lewis, or Lucy’s influence, but something’s shifted. I’m starting to feel like myself again.
Across the room, Lucy’s surrounded by a group of sponsors and volunteers. She’s animated as she talks, her hands moving expressively, her laugh cutting through the chatter like music. Even from a distance, she commands the space—not in the calculated way Jess used to, with her rehearsed smiles and carefully curated charm, but with a genuine energy that feels effortless and sincere. Lucy’s warmth isn’t about impressing anyone; it’s about connecting, making everyone in her orbit feel seen and valued. She’s not performing. She’s just being Lucy. And it’s impossible not to watch her.
Mark sidles up beside me, balancing a plate of appetizers. “She’s good, isn’t she?” he says, following my gaze.
“Yeah,” I admit, unable to tear my eyes away. “She is.”
Mark grins knowingly, nudging me with his elbow. “You’ve got it bad, Mitchell.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but my tone is light. Because he’s not wrong.
When the crowd starts to thin, I finally make my way over to Lucy. She’s mid-conversation with Mayor Collins, her face glowing with the kind of excitement that only comes from talking about something you love. When she sees me, her smile softens, shifting from professional to something warmer. Something just for me.
“Logan,” she greets, her tone light but welcoming. “Good game tonight.”
“Thanks,” I reply, slipping my hands into my pockets. “You weren’t too hard on the refs, were you?”
She laughs, and the sound makes something inside me loosen. “Not this time. But only because they actually called a decent game.”
The mayor excuses himself, leaving us in a quiet bubble amid the fading hum of the room. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The weight of the day, the game, and this connection between us hangs in the air.
“You were incredible tonight,” she says finally, her voice softer, more sincere. “The way you’re connecting with the team, the community… it’s amazing to watch.”
I shrug, the compliment landing heavier than she probably intended. “Just trying to keep up with you,” I say, and the faint blush that colors her cheeks feels like a small victory.
Before I can say more, Lewis nudges her hand, drawing her attention. She crouches to pet him, her fingers ruffling his fur. “You’re lucky to have him,” she says, looking up at me. “He’s pretty special.”
“Yeah,” I agree, my gaze steady on hers. “He is.”
The moment stretches, the noise around us fading as our eyes lock. My breath catches, my chest tightening in a way that’s both thrilling and unnerving. There’s something magnetic in her gaze, something that feels like a quiet challenge and a gentle reassurance all at once, pulling me closer despite the noise in my head telling me to step back. It’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist, just the two of us in this shared space. But then someone calls her name, breaking the spell. She stands, brushing her hair behind her ear.
“I should… get back to mingling,” she says, her tone reluctant.
“Yeah. Me too,” I reply, even though walking away is the last thing I want to do.
The night air is cool as I walk home with Lewis, the stars scattered across the sky like pieces of a puzzle. My thoughts drift back to Lucy—the way she looked at me, the way she makes me feel like I’m more than the sum of my mistakes. I’ve been trying to keep things professional, to focus on the campaign and the team, but it’s getting harder to ignore what’s right in front of me.
Lewis barks, snapping me out of my thoughts. He nudges my leg with his nose, his tail wagging like he knows something I don’t. I crouch down, scratching behind his ears. “What do you think, buddy? Am I crazy for thinking this could actually work?”
He barks again, his enthusiasm infectious. I chuckle, shaking my head. “Yeah, me too.”
As we climb the steps to my apartment, the weight I’ve been carrying feels just a little lighter. For the first time in years, I’m not just looking forward to tomorrow. I’m looking forward to her. It’s not just about her smile or the way she lights up a room—it’s the way she’s helped me see myself differently. With Lucy, it’s like the weight of my past isn’t as heavy, like I’m allowed to hope for more than what I’ve settled for. And that hope, fragile as it feels, is enough to keep me moving forward.