Page 2

Chapter 2

Logan

A buzz of voices fills the Pine Harbor Community Center’s meeting room, blending with the scrape of chairs and the faint aroma of coffee to set a tone of lively anticipation. The room’s usual decor of motivational posters and hockey team memorabilia seems brighter under the fluorescent lights. Pine Harbor’s influential figures—coaches, local leaders, and a few players—mingle in a loose circle, clutching coffee cups and murmuring about the latest town happenings. Outside the large windows, the glow from nearby shops and lampposts adds to the small-town charm, a reminder that Pine Harbor thrives on connection and community spirit.

I lean against the back wall, my arms crossed, scanning the room. Meetings like this aren’t usually my thing. I’d rather be on the ice or anywhere else, really, but Coach Turner made it clear attendance was non-negotiable. My gaze flickers to the mayor, a short man with a booming voice, currently laughing heartily with Mark. Meanwhile, Coach Turner is arranging some notes at the head of the room, his expression as unreadable as always.

Mark sidles up beside me, his easy grin already in place. “You look like you’re planning your escape.”

“Not planning,” I mutter. “Just regretting.”

Mark chuckles and nudges my shoulder. “Relax, Logan. This could be good for the team.”

I don’t bother responding. My teammate’s optimism is his default setting, and while it’s mostly harmless, it’s not contagious. Not for me, anyway.

“All right, everyone,” Coach Turner calls, his deep voice cutting through the chatter. He’s not the type to shout, but he doesn’t need to. His presence commands attention. The room quiets almost instantly as everyone turns toward him.

“Thanks for coming,” Coach begins, scanning the group with the same intensity he uses during a pre-game pep talk. “As you know, the Timberwolves are more than just a hockey team. We’re part of this community, and it’s our responsibility to give back.”

There’s a murmur of agreement, and Mayor Collins nods enthusiastically. I stay quiet, letting my focus drift to the window, where the faint glow of the ice rink lights bleeds into the evening sky.

Coach continues. “To that end, I want to introduce an initiative we’ve been exploring: the ‘Adopt-a-Player’ campaign.” He pauses, letting the title sink in. “The idea is simple. Each player would be paired with an adoptable pet from Cozy Paws Animal Shelter. We’ll promote the campaign through social media and local events, encouraging adoptions while fostering stronger community connections. Of course, this is still in the works, and we’ll need to iron out the details with Lucy Hart, the shelter manager, before moving forward.”

I lean slightly against the wall, muttering under my breath, “Why do we even need this? The team’s doing fine without posing with pets.”

Mark snickers beside me, but Coach’s sharp glance cuts through the room, and I force myself to focus.

“This is a win-win opportunity,” Coach says, his tone firm. “The shelter gains visibility, and we strengthen our ties with Pine Harbor. But more than that, it’s a chance for each of you to show another side of yourselves.”

The mayor stands, his smile wide and confident. “I couldn’t agree more. Pine Harbor thrives on these kinds of collaborations. Bringing together two beloved institutions—the Timberwolves and Cozy Paws—is exactly the kind of initiative that makes this town special.”

Mark, ever the extrovert, raises his hand. “So, how does it work? Do we get to pick our pet, or are we assigned one? Because I’ve got my eye on that golden retriever I saw last week.”

The room laughs, and even I can’t suppress a small smirk. Leave it to Mark to inject humor into a discussion.

Coach shakes his head, though a ghost of a smile crosses his face. “The logistics are still being worked out, but we’ll coordinate with Lucy Hart, the shelter manager, to ensure everything runs smoothly.”

Lucy Hart. Her name settles in my mind like a pebble dropped into a still pond, creating ripples of curiosity and frustration that spread through my thoughts, tugging at questions I’m not ready to face. The first time I met her, she was scolding me—politely, but firmly—for accidentally knocking over a display table during a community event. Her green eyes had flashed with determination and a spark of mischief as she hastily rearranged the toppled materials, all while explaining the importance of that fundraiser in a tone so cheerful it bordered on teasing.

"You know," she had said, flashing a smile that made her dimples show, "next time, try not to take the entire table down with you. We’re trying to raise money, not demolish the place."

I’d muttered a half-hearted apology, feeling like a bull in a china shop under her bright, unflinching gaze. As I walked away, still rattled, her voice carried after me: "Just don’t trip over anything else, okay?" It wasn’t mocking—it was sassy, warm, and somehow encouraging all at once. That mix of kindness and unrelenting optimism still sticks with me, no matter how much I try to shake it off.

I’ve only interacted with her a handful of times, and most of those encounters were more sparks than synergy. She’s…different. Passionate. Relentlessly cheerful. Sunshine wrapped in sarcasm, a combination I’m not entirely sure how to handle. And, if I’m being honest, not someone I expected to collaborate with.

“Logan?” Coach’s voice breaks through my thoughts. I blink, realizing the room is looking at me.

“What?”

“What do you think?” Coach repeats, his gaze steady. “You’ve been quiet.”

I straighten, feeling the weight of their eyes. What I really want to say is that this is stupid. That it’s a waste of time. PR is a waste of time. The media spins things however they want, and I’m always the bad guy—especially since my last breakup. My ex was so good at making people believe her charity outlook was all real, and of course, by default, that made me look like the total opposite. But I can’t say any of that. Instead, I keep my voice flat and ask, “How’s this going to work without turning us into a joke? I’m not sure people come to games hoping to see their hockey players walking puppies. What happens if it backfires?”

“That’s exactly why we’re discussing it now,” Coach says. “To iron out potential issues before we move forward. But remember, Logan, this isn’t just about the team. It’s about making a difference.”

His words hang in the air, and I nod reluctantly. The room’s attention shifts as someone else raises a question, but my thoughts linger. Making a difference sounds good in theory, but I can’t shake the nagging doubt that this is more complicated than it seems. Last time I tried to give back, the tabloids twisted it into a spectacle, making it hard to trust that this won’t end the same way. Maybe it’s because I’ve tried to make a difference before, and it’s blown up in my face. The tabloids spun my past mistakes into a narrative that painted me as reckless, and it’s hard to trust that people will see past that. This campaign—tying my name to the shelter and putting myself out there—feels like stepping into the spotlight again, but with no guarantee it won’t burn me all over.

As the meeting progresses, my focus drifts again. I think about the last time I saw Lucy. It was earlier today, during her adoption event. She’d been in her element, surrounded by kids and animals, her energy lighting up the room. She’s…different from me in every way. Where I’m guarded, she’s open. Where I’m focused on avoiding the past, she seems determined to embrace every moment. That contrast should irritate me, and sometimes it does. But there’s also something about her…her ability to make people feel seen, even when she’s rushing from task to task, that lingers in my mind longer than it should.

Mark’s elbow nudges me out of my thoughts, and I blink, refocusing on the chatter of the room. “You okay?” he whispers, his grin faint but knowing.

For a moment, I just nod, letting the sound of shuffling papers and low voices ground me. The faint smell of coffee mingles with the distant hum of the ice machines.

“You were staring off into space,” he adds, his tone light. “Thinking about your new furry friend?”

“More like thinking about how this whole thing could go sideways,” I mutter, but it’s not the whole truth. Part of my distraction is Lucy. Her name, her energy, and what it means to work with someone so opposite to me.

I give him a flat look, and he grins. “Lighten up, Logan. This could be good for you. Dogs don’t care about your reputation. They just want you to throw a ball.”

“And cats?” I ask dryly.

“They’ll ignore you unless you have food. Perfect match, really.”

Despite myself, I chuckle. Mark has a way of cutting through the tension, and for a moment, I let myself relax.

By the time the meeting wraps up, the “Adopt-a-Player” campaign is no longer just an idea. The room feels lighter, the hum of conversation now tinged with excitement and purpose as attendees discuss potential matches and logistics. It’s a budding plan, one that hinges on finalizing details with Lucy and the shelter. As everyone begins to leave, I linger near the back, watching Coach as he finishes a conversation with Mayor Collins and then makes his way toward me. There’s a determined look on his face, the kind that tells me I’m not escaping this meeting without a few pointed words.

“Logan, a word?” Coach’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. He gestures for me to follow him into the quiet corner of the room.

“What’s up?” I ask, crossing my arms as he closes the door behind us.

Coach’s gaze is steady, his tone low but firm. “I want this to work, Logan. And I need you on board—not just halfway. All in. This campaign is about more than just the team or the shelter; it’s about showing people who we are, who you are.”

“I get it,” I reply, but my voice comes out more defensive than I intend.

“Do you?” Coach leans forward slightly. “Look, I know the media hasn’t been kind. I’ve seen the headlines, too. But this is a chance to change that narrative. People love a redemption story, Logan, and I know you have it in you to give them one. But you’re going to have to let them see it.”

His words land heavier than I want to admit, pressing against the stubborn wall I’ve built around myself. For a moment, I just stand there, jaw tight, letting the silence do the talking. Finally, I exhale sharply and mutter, “I’ll try, but don’t expect miracles,” I mutter, a flicker of uncertainty tugging at the edges of my voice. Letting people down isn’t something I’m eager to relive.

“Good,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “And smooth things over with Lucy. You’ll need her trust if this is going to work.”

As I leave the room, Coach’s words echo in my mind. Trust. Redemption. For the first time, I feel the weight of what’s ahead—and the possibilities it could bring.

“Hey,” Mark says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You coming?”

“In a minute,” I reply. He shrugs and heads out, leaving me alone in the quieting room.

A message notification buzzes on my phone. I pull it out, frowning at the screen. It’s from one of our sponsors, expressing interest in the campaign and suggesting it could boost not only the shelter but also the Timberwolves’ image.

I tuck the phone back into my pocket, my thoughts swirling. The idea of working with Lucy…it’s not exactly comfortable, but maybe that’s the point. Facing her relentless optimism might be exactly what I need to push past my own walls and figure out if there’s more to this than discomfort. Maybe stepping out of my comfort zone is what I need, even if it means facing her relentless optimism head-on.

As I head toward the exit, I can’t help but wonder what’s in store. For the team. For the shelter. For me.