Page 17
Chapter 17
Lucy
T he morning sun streams through the shelter’s front windows, casting warm golden patches on the tile floor and illuminating the cheerful mural of animals along the far wall. Cozy Paws hums with its usual energy—volunteers chatting, the occasional bark from the play area, and the soft purring of contented cats nestled in their beds. It’s the kind of day that usually steadies me, reminding me of why I do this. But today, the knot in my stomach won’t untangle.
I glance at my tablet again, the headline pulling my attention back despite my better judgment: “Shelter Manager Leverages Star Player’s Redemption Arc for Campaign Gains.” My grip tightens on the edges of the tablet, my pulse skipping slightly as the words seem to throb on the screen, taunting me. A sharp breath escapes before I realize I’m holding it, my chest tightening under the weight of implication. The words seem to pulse on the screen, mocking me.
The article’s content should be a win. It highlights the success of the "Adopt-a-Player" campaign, celebrating the community’s involvement, the Timberwolves’ contribution, and the surge in adoptions. On the surface, it’s exactly the kind of publicity we’ve been working for. But then the tone shifts, focusing on Logan’s redemption story and framing me as the opportunist pulling the strings. “A savvy shelter manager capitalizing on a star athlete’s public transformation…” The accusation is subtle but unmistakable.
I minimize the screen, setting the tablet down with more force than necessary. My fingers tighten around the clipboard I’ve been pretending to review, and the familiar hum of the shelter fades into the background. I’ve worked too hard, poured too much of myself into Cozy Paws, for anyone to think it’s built on anything other than love and determination.
I shift my weight, my fingers tapping against the clipboard in a rhythm that betrays my tension. Just as my eyes dart toward the doorway, a mixture of frustration and vulnerability etched across my face. “Lucy, you okay?” Emma’s voice pulls me back to the present. She’s standing in the doorway with a bag of treats for the dogs, her brows knitting together in concern.
“Fine,” I reply too quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… busy.”
Emma tilts her head, unconvinced, but she doesn’t press. “Well, these should keep the pups happy for a while,” she says, lifting the bag with a smile. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Emma,” I say, my voice softer. As she disappears down the hall, I glance back at the tablet, the headline still flashing in my mind.
The bell above the door jingles, and I look up to see Logan walking in, Lewis bounding at his side. Logan’s Timberwolves hoodie hangs loosely over his broad shoulders, his hair slightly tousled as if he’d been absently running his hands through it. My stomach does a subtle flip at the sight of him, a reminder of how his presence seems to anchor and unnerve me all at once. He scans the room, his sharp gaze softening when it lands on me.
“Hey,” he greets, his voice gruff but warm. He crouches to ruffle Lewis’s ears, the dog’s tail wagging furiously. “Figured we could go over the logistics for the adoption event.”
I swallow hard, forcing a smile. “Sure. Let’s grab a table.”
We settle at a desk near the front, papers spread between us. Logan’s focus is on the flyers and volunteer schedules, but I can’t concentrate. The article’s words press against my thoughts, growing heavier with each passing minute. Finally, I blurt it out.
“Have you seen the article?”
Logan looks up, his brows furrowing. “Which one?”
I pull up the page on my tablet and slide it across the table. He scans the screen, his jaw tightening as his eyes move over the text. When he finishes, he sets the tablet down with a sharp exhale.
“That’s a load of crap,” he mutters. “You’re not leveraging anything.”
I shrug, the weight of his frustration pressing against my own. “Maybe not intentionally, but?—”
“Stop,” he interrupts, his tone sharper than I’ve ever heard it. “You’re not using me, Lucy. You’re doing this for the shelter, for the animals. Anyone who knows you can see that.”
“But what about the people who don’t know me?” I counter, my voice rising slightly. “What about the ones who read this and think?—”
“Who cares what they think?” Logan snaps, standing abruptly. Lewis flinches at the motion, and Logan immediately crouches to rub the dog’s head. “Sorry, buddy,” he murmurs before straightening and looking at me again. His tone is calmer now but no less intense. “Why are you letting this get to you?”
“Because it’s not just about me,” I say, my voice quieter. “It’s about the shelter. If people think this campaign is built on something fake, it could ruin everything.”
Logan runs a hand through his hair, his fingers threading through the strands in a deliberate motion, as if searching for the right words to bridge the growing tension in the room. His shoulders tense, a visible sign of the weight he’s carrying. “Lucy, the people who matter know the truth. Don’t let some hack journalist make you doubt yourself.”
His words linger, heavy with sincerity, but the tension in my chest doesn’t ease. “I just… I need some time to think,” I say finally, standing and moving toward the back door.
Logan watches me for a moment, his jaw working like he’s holding back more words. Finally, he nods. “Alright.”
He clips Lewis’s leash to his collar and heads for the door. Just before stepping out, he pauses, his back to me. “For what it’s worth, Lucy… you’re doing something amazing here. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me standing in the middle of the shelter, the article open on the desk and my thoughts more tangled than ever.
That evening, I curl up on the couch with a mug of tea, the tablet balanced precariously on my lap. Against my better judgment, I’ve ventured into the article’s comment section, and it’s a mixed bag of opinions.
“Logan’s come a long way. It’s good to see him doing something meaningful.”
“Typical small-town manager riding a celebrity’s coattails. She probably planned the whole thing just to get close to him.”
The second comment cuts deeper than I want to admit. My fingers tighten around the mug, the warmth seeping into my palms as I try to push the words out of my mind. But they linger, feeding the doubts already gnawing at the edges of my confidence.
I set the tablet aside and lean back, staring at the ceiling. My chest feels heavy, as though the weight of the shelter’s future is pressing down on me. The article’s implications might be baseless, but they’ve planted a seed of uncertainty I can’t ignore.
For the first time in years, doubt creeps in, whispering that maybe I’ve taken on more than I can handle. And that thought terrifies me.
But then I think of Logan’s parting words, the quiet conviction in his voice as he told me I was doing something amazing. I hold onto that, fragile as it feels, and let it steady me. Tomorrow is another day, and I’ll find a way forward—for the shelter, for the animals, and maybe, just maybe, for me.