Chapter 2
Logan
The blade of my skate bites into fresh ice, and my body remembers before my brain does.
Twelve years pro, and that first step still hits me with a rush.
The rink smells like home—sweat and that sharp, metallic tang of ice mingling with the earthy notes of damp, worn gear, and that undefinable scent of cold that gets into your bones.
I push off hard, feeling my quads as I circle the ice ahead of practice, watching the other guys filter in, some still bleary-eyed from whatever bar they closed down last night.
I circle the rink when I catch Ruzek’s eye. He’s laughing to himself, a smirk spreading across his face as he glances my way.
"What's got you giggling over there, Rosey?" I call out, curious.
“I keep thinking about that chick from Skyline who kept calling you 'Captain'? Even when you were—" he thrusts his hips crudely, "—you know."
I trap the puck he lazily sends over under my stick, flicking it back toward him with a quick snap of my wrists. "Jesus, Rosey. You promised never to bring that up again."
He howls with laughter, nearly losing an edge. "She kept saluting you! Mid-action! 'Yes, Captain! Right there, Captain!'" His impression is high-pitched and ridiculous. "Then her roommate walks in and—"
The guys laugh, and I laugh with them, because that's what we do. Trade stories about women like hockey cards, keep score in a game that suddenly feels like it's gone into too many overtime periods.
Coach Martinez blows his whistle, and we gather at center ice. I glance at the clock: exactly 10 AM. Martinez is nothing if not punctual.
"Alright, ladies," he barks, though his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. The man can't quite hide when he's in a good mood. "Pair up. Passing drills to start. I want to see some crisp tape-to-tape. None of that garbage from the third period on Tuesday."
I pair with Nichols, our top-line center. He's twenty-four, six years into what promises to be a hall-of-fame career, and still has the enthusiasm of a kid playing a pickup game on a frozen pond.
"How's the knee, Mac?" he asks, sending a pass that lands perfectly on my stick.
"My knee's back in action, thanks to that new treatment. Now if only we could get you to stop making such ridiculous faces when you miss a shot."
We settle into the rhythm of practice—the sharp slice of skates cutting through ice, the hollow clack of stick on puck, the dull thud when a shot hits the boards.
These sounds live in my dreams, more familiar than any lover's voice.
There's comfort in this routine, in knowing exactly what I'm meant to do and how to do it.
"Heard anything about the school thing next week?" Nichols asks between drills.
"What school thing?"
"That reading program. PR set it up—we're going to some elementary school to read books to kids." He shrugs.
"Shit, is that next week already?" I vaguely remember seeing it on the calendar. Another publicity obligation, smiling for photos while proving hockey players can read.
"Yeah, man. You, me, Kovy, and Schmidty. Bring your best 'Cat in the Hat' voice."
Coach blows the whistle again, splitting us into power play units. I take my position at the point, sliding into the familiar patterns of our setup. My body works on autopilot—get open, find the seam, shoot low for the tip—while my mind drifts.
Schools mean teachers. Teachers mean women who probably have their shit together more than the bar flies and Instagram models in my contact list. Women with actual careers and ambitions beyond getting photographed on the arm of a Chicago Blade.
"McCoy! Wake the fuck up!" coach shouts, and I realize I've missed a pass that's now sliding toward the opposite goal.
"Sorry, Marty." I tap my stick on the ice, signaling I'm back in the game. But my focus keeps slipping, like I've hit a rut in the ice.
After drills, we scrimmage—red jerseys against white.
I'm paired with Schneider on defense, working to shut down Nicky’s line.
This is where I'm at my best, reading plays before they develop, getting stick on puck to cause a turnover, then making the simple pass to start the breakout.
Hockey makes sense. Life off the ice? That's where I keep getting caught flatfooted.
"Yo, Mac," Kovalchuk says during a water break, "we're hitting River North tonight. New club opened last weekend. Owner's a fan, said he'd comp the table."
"Can't," I lie. "Got a thing with my financial advisor."
"At 11 PM on a Thursday?" He snorts, not buying it.
"Tax season, man. Complicated shit."
The truth is I can't stomach another night of pretentious clubs and twenty-something women who laugh too hard at my jokes while sneaking photos for their Insta stories. The cycle used to feel exciting—new city, new face, new bed. Now it just feels like wandering in circles without a destination.
We finish up with a cool-down session, focusing on puck control and simple passing drills. I push myself to stay sharp and focused after getting called out by coach for my daydreaming.
In the locker room, the conversation turns to the usual post-practice topics: who's injured but hiding it, which referee screwed us last game, and inevitably, women.
"I feel like married people have it made," Schmidty says, peeling off his practice jersey. He's twenty-five, recently engaged, and suddenly an expert on commitment. "No more games, man. Come home to the same person every night. It's fucking awesome."
"‘Awesome’ sounds boring as shit," Jenkins counters.
"Mac gets it. Why settle for one flavor for the rest of your life when you can sample the whole ice cream shop whenever you feel like it?
Cookies and cream one night and a little rocky road now and then?
" He says, gyrating his hips and making an O-face.
The guys are giggling at his pantomime and turn to me, waiting for my veteran wisdom on the eternal bachelor versus married man debate. I force a grin, playing my role.
"Way I see it, marriage is like a power play. Everybody wants it, but even the best power play in the league fails more often than it succeeds."
They laugh, clearly amused. It’s just another day with Logan McCoy—the guy who treats commitment like a hot potato and spends more time with cocktail waitresses than he does with women who can hold a decent conversation.
I don't tell them that lately I've been wondering what it would be like to come home to someone who knows me—not the hockey player, not the Chicago Blades captain, but me.
Someone who'd still be there when the spotlight moves on to the next young star, when my knees can't take the punishment anymore, when the only ice in my life is floating in a whiskey glass.
Coach blows his whistle and calls us to center ice. “Alright, that’s a wrap! Nice work out there today fellas. He rubs Rosey’s helmet playfully pushing his head down a bit before heading toward his office. The guys follow, leaving hard-earned sweat in their wake..
I glide toward the exit, suddenly struck by the hollow feeling in my chest that has nothing to do with exertion.
Twelve years I've been chasing pucks and women with equal determination.
One pursuit has brought me a captain's C and the respect of everyone in hockey.
The other has brought me... what, exactly?
As I step off the ice, I glance toward the locker room, suddenly restless in a way that no amount of physical exhaustion can cure. Something's gotta change. I just don't know what.
The training room hums with the quiet efficiency of people who make broken bodies functional again.
I ease onto the massage table, wincing as my right knee protests the morning's workout.
Twelve years of hits, blocks, and falls have left their mark—invisible to fans but catalogued in sharp detail by my nervous system.
I close my eyes as one of the trainers digs skilled thumbs into my quadriceps, finding knots I didn't even know were there.
"Jesus, Mac. Your muscles are like concrete today," Dave says, increasing the pressure until I have to bite back a groan. "Something bothering you?"
"Just the usual and Jenkins' terrible jokes."
Dave laughs, and says, “Yeah, Jenkins’ jokes are a danger to everyone.”
"Ice bath after this," he suggests. "Ten minutes should do it."
I grunt in agreement. The door swings open, and I don't need to look to know who it is. Matthew Sullivan's presence fills a room before he says a word—a skill I've tried to learn from him since I was eighteen and terrified of saying the wrong thing to my childhood hero.
"There he is, Chicago's most eligible defenseman," Sully says, his voice carrying the gravel of too many nights out with the boys and not enough rest in his playing days.
At forty-nine, he's still built like the power forward he used to be, though his dark hair has gone silver at the temples. "Hiding from Martinez?"
"Strategic retreat," I correct him, hissing as Dave finds a particularly tender spot. "Coach thinks I wasn't focused today."
"Were you?"
I crack open one eye to find Sully watching me with that penetrating look that made him such an effective captain during his playing days. Even now, as a special advisor to the team, he has a way of seeing through the bullshit we all carry around.
"Not really," I admit.
Sully nods to Dave. "Give us a minute?"
Dave finishes working on my quad and steps back. "He's all yours. But he still needs that ice bath after."
"I'll make sure he gets in," Sully promises.
Once we're alone, Sully settles into a chair beside the massage table.
The training room is where a lot of heart-to-heart conversations happen organically.
Everything is slower in here, the distant sounds of the rink being resurfaced, the equipment buzzing, it somehow encourages you to be thoughtful and occasionally spill your guts.
"What's eating you, kid?" he asks, though I haven't been a kid to anyone but him in a long time.