Chapter 4
Logan
Iwalk into the dressing room, where several of the boys are getting ready for practice, the damp coffee stain visible on my sweater and it’s cold.
The unmistakable smell of coffee is betraying my mishap and I’m praying they don’t notice.
It's not the way I usually arrive for practice—coffee-splashed and wearing a dopey smile I can't seem to shake—but I can't stop.
My mind keeps replaying those few minutes with Reese, her sweet energy, the way she looked wrapped in my jacket, her surprise when I asked to give her my number.
"Holy shit, McCoy! Did you bathe in Starbucks this morning?" Benny calls out from his stall, a defenseman with no filter. Well, that didn’t take long.
All heads turn my way, and I know I'm in for it. Hockey players are like sharks—show any hint of vulnerability, any deviation from routine—that’s blood in the water, and they'll attack with gusto.
"Looks like Captain Coffee had a rough morning," Schmitty adds, tugging his practice jersey over his head. "What happened? Barista reject your advances?"
I peel off my wet sweater, tossing it into my bag. "Actually, she didn't reject me at all."
"That’s a new kink," Kovy says, grinning. "She has a thing about dousing her men in coffee?" The boys snicker.
"Very funny, Kovy" I pull my practice gear down from my stall, trying to act casual. "We literally ran into each other. Coffee went everywhere. We just exchanged numbers."
This gets their attention. These guys have seen me collect phone numbers from beautiful women over the years. It's nothing new. But something about my face must give me away because the teasing intensifies.
"Wait, wait, wait." Liam, our rookie goalie, leans forward. "Are you saying some random chick spilled coffee all over you, and instead of being pissed, you got her digits?"
I shrug, lacing up my skates. "Total accident.
Coffee went everywhere—mostly on her white blouse.
" I laugh and shake my head because I’m leaving out how transparent that blouse became, how deep her eyes looked when she apologized.
Those details are mine. "I gave her my jacket since her shirt was soaked. "
"The new gray one?" Benny whistles low. "Damn, she must've been smoking hot."
"She's hot, and she’s a kindergarten teacher," I say, surprised by the defensive edge in my voice. "For that reading program we're doing. Pure coincidence."
"A kindergarten teacher?" Kovy raises his eyebrows suggestively. "Like the hot kind from the movies or the scary kind with the rulers?"
I pull my practice jersey over my head to hide my smile. "More the hot kind. I don’t know what she does with rulers.” I say with a mischievous grin.
The guys exchange knowing looks, and I realize I've said too much. I backtrack, falling into our usual locker room banter. "Anyway, it was just funny timing. Got her number, might see her again before the reading thing. No big deal."
But it feels like a big deal. When Reese crashed into me, something weird happened. Not just attraction—I've felt plenty of that before—but something...easier. Comfortable. She didn't simper or try to impress me. She was just real, flustered and funny, and completely herself.
"Earth to McCoy!" Coach Martinez's voice cuts through my thoughts. "If you're done daydreaming about your coffee date, we've got actual hockey to play."
I grab my stick and helmet. "Roger that, Coach."
"And McCoy?" He gives me a stern look that doesn't quite hide his amusement. "Next time bring enough coffee for everyone if you're going to wear it as cologne."
The team roars with laughter as we file out toward the ice.
I let them have their fun, knowing they'll find a new target for their jokes soon enough.
But as my skates hit the ice, I can't shake the lightness in my chest. There's something about this morning that's left me feeling more present, more alive than I have in weeks.
Practice starts with our usual drills—passing sequences, breakout plays, defensive zone coverage.
I push myself harder than usual, my movements crisp and focused.
Every time I line up for a drill, I imagine Reese watching from the stands.
I picture her wrapped in my too-big jacket, intently following me across the ice.
She's not here, of course. But the mere thought of her pushes me to skate faster, shoot harder, make cleaner passes. I thread a perfect saucer pass through traffic to Kovy for a one-timer that rings off the post and in. He raises his stick in celebration, and I feel a rush of satisfaction.
"Where the hell did that come from?" he asks when we circle back to the blue line.
I just tap his shin pads with my stick and grin. "Just feeling it today."
And I am. Every muscle in my body feels tuned exactly right. I'm seeing plays develop a half-second earlier than usual. My hands are soft with the puck, my shots finding the smallest openings. It's one of those rare practices where everything clicks, where the game feels as natural as breathing.
When Coach blows the whistle to end practice, Sully beckons me over with a slight tilt of his head. I skate to him, breathing hard, sweat dripping down my back.
"Where's that game been hiding?" he asks, voice gruff but eyes appraising.
"What?" I take a swig from my water bottle, playing dumb.
"Don't bullshit me, kid." He leans against the boards. "You were flying out there. Skating like you've got something to prove. Or someone to impress."
I shrug, but I can feel the corner of my mouth twitching up. "Just a good day, I guess."
"Uh-huh." Sully doesn't look convinced. "Nothing to do with why you showed up smelling like a coffee shop?"
"Maybe." I can't help the smile now. "Met someone. Kindergarten teacher. She's part of that reading program."
Something shifts in Sully's expression—surprise, then something almost like approval. "Kindergarten teacher, huh? That's...different for you."
"Yeah, well." I fiddle with the tape on my stick. "She is different."
Sully studies me for a moment longer, then claps me on the shoulder. "Good. About damn time." He pushes off from the boards. "Keep that focus, whatever's causing it. Best you've looked all season."
As he walks away, I realize he's right. I do feel focused in a way I haven't in a long time. Hockey's always been my escape, my purpose, the one thing I could control when everything else felt chaotic. But lately, it's started to feel routine. Just another day at the office.
Today, though? Today it felt new again. Fresh.
Like I was playing to show what I can do—what’s possible for me.
I pretended Reese was watching me try out.
How ridiculous is that? She's not even here, probably has no idea how I play, might not even care about hockey beyond the school program.
Yet somehow, the mere thought of seeing her again has lit a fire under me that I thought had gone out.
I skate one last lap around the ice before heading to the locker room, already wondering when I'll see her again. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm actually looking forward to something that has nothing to do with hockey.
Later, I'm toweling off my hair when my phone buzzes in my locker.
Three messages from Jen in PR, each more urgent than the last. I swipe open the final one: "WGN podcast wants you TODAY at 2.
Please confirm ASAP. Important for community outreach.
" I groan. The last thing I want after practice is to sit in a stuffy studio talking about forechecks and power play strategies.
But being captain means doing the media dance, especially when they slap "community outreach" on the request. I text back a thumbs-up emoji and Jen responds instantly with a string of exclamation points.
"What's got you looking like someone stole your favorite stick?" Kovy asks, peering over my shoulder.
"PR." I toss my phone back in my locker. "Podcast interview."
"Better you than me." He slaps my back with enough force to rock me forward. "Just don't forget to mention how amazing your teammates are."
I flip him off good-naturedly and finish getting dressed. My mind drifts back to Reese’s smile. I wonder if she'd listen to a hockey podcast. Probably not. She seemed to know who I was, but not in the obsessive way some women do—the ones who can recite my stats and know which brand of skates I use.
The drive to the WGN studio takes longer than expected, Chicago traffic grinding to a halt because of construction.
I text Jen that I might be cutting it close, and she responds with an anxiety-inducing "DRIVE FASTER.
" Easy for her to say—she's not the one who'd get crucified in the press for a speeding ticket.
I make it with five minutes to spare, rushing into the building where a production assistant is already waiting to escort me upstairs.
The studio is smaller than I expected, just a room with sound-dampening panels, a round table with microphones on it, and some WGN and Blades logos hanging behind us.
The host, a long-time Blades reporter named Trent Wilson, jumps up when I enter.
He's about my height but softer around the middle, with the overly enthusiastic handshake of someone trying to establish dominance.
"Logan! My man!" He pumps my hand like he's trying to draw water from a well. "Psyched to have you in the studio. Absolutely psyched."
"Thanks for having me," I say, the practiced response sliding out automatically.
"We're going to have a great chat. Hockey, playoffs, life as Chicago's most eligible bachelor." He winks. "The whole nine yards."
Great. One of those interviews. I take my seat across from him, adjusting the microphone while a tech hooks a small mic to my shirt. I've done enough of these to know the routine: start with hockey, ease into personal stuff, keep it light and funny, never say anything controversial. It's PR 101.