Chapter 4 #2
"We're live in thirty," the producer calls out, and Trent gives me a thumbs up.
"Just be yourself," he says. "The listeners love when players get real."
But they don't, not really. They love a carefully curated version of "real" that fits their expectations. For me, that's always been the charming playboy image—never serious about anything but hockey, always ready with a quip about the beautiful women of Chicago.
The red light blinks on, and Trent launches into his intro.
"What's up, Chicago? It's Trent Wilson with 'Blades Banter,' and today I've got a real treat for you. Sitting across from me is none other than Logan McCoy, captain of our Chicago Blades and the man leading the charge toward what we're all hoping is a deep playoff run. Logan, welcome to the show."
"Thanks for having me," I say again, settling into interview mode.
The first ten minutes are standard hockey talk—our recent winning streak, the upcoming road trip, how the rookies are developing. I give thoughtful but safe answers, the kind that sound good but don't actually reveal much. It's a dance I've perfected over the years.
Then Trent shifts gears, leaning in with a conspiratorial smile.
"So, Logan, you've been Chicago's most eligible hockey bachelor for what, five years now? Six? The ladies of Chicago want to know—is there any special woman who's finally managed to tie down the Blades' captain?"
I laugh, the sound practiced and hollow. "No, no. Still flying solo."
"Must be tough, fighting them off," Trent says with another wink.
"I mean, come on, you're a good-looking guy, Stanley Cup champion, captain of an Original Six team.
.. the women must be throwing themselves at you wherever you go.
Any wild stories you can share with our listeners?
Keep it PG-13, of course." He laughs at his own joke.
This is where I usually play along—make some self-deprecating comment, maybe hint at a wild night without details, keep the playboy myth alive. It's expected. It's easy. It's what I've done in every interview for years.
But today, the words stick in my throat. All I can think about is Reese's face when I gave her my jacket, what she might think if she hears me bragging about the reputation I earned as a bit of a playboy.
"You know, it's funny," I hear myself saying, veering completely off-script. "That whole scene... it was fun for a while."
Trent blinks, clearly expecting a different answer. "The hockey groupie scene? Sure, but it's still fun, right? I mean, if I had your opportunities—" He trails off with a suggestive chuckle.
"When I was twenty-two, yeah, absolutely," I continue, surprising myself with each word. "You're young, suddenly have money and attention... it's a rush. But honestly? It gets old."
"Gets old?" Trent repeats, like I've just told him the earth is flat. "Having beautiful women interested in you gets old?"
I lean back in my chair, suddenly aware of how true my words are, even though I've never articulated them before.
"The thing is, after a while, you realize there's not much substance there.
It's all surface—they're not interested in you, they're interested in what you represent.
The jersey, the lifestyle, the story they can tell their friends. "
Trent looks briefly panicked, like he's lost control of the interview. "But you're still enjoying the single life, right? Living it up in Chicago?"
"I'm not complaining," I clarify, not wanting to sound ungrateful. "I've got an amazing life. But there comes a point where you want something real. Something that matters beyond just a night or a weekend."
Where is this coming from? I've never spoken like this in an interview before. But as the words leave my mouth, I realize they're true. Have been true for longer than I've admitted to myself.
"Wow, sounds like our Captain might be ready to settle down," Trent says, trying to regain his footing. "Ladies of Chicago, you heard it here first—there might be hope after all!"
I smile, letting him pivot the conversation back to safer territory.
We finish the interview talking about the upcoming charity events the team is involved with, including the reading program at local schools.
I mention it without using Reese's name, but her face is clear in my mind as I describe how important community outreach is to the team.
When the red light blinks off, Trent removes his headphones with a low whistle.
"Gotta say, McCoy, wasn't expecting the philosophical turn there. Not what I’m used to.”
"Yeah, well." I shrug, suddenly self-conscious.
"Makes for good radio." He stands, offering his hand again. "Come back anytime. The ladies are going to be blowing up our phone lines after this."
I shake his hand and thank the producer, then head for the elevator. In the quiet of the descending car, I replay the interview in my head. What made me open up like that? I've never deviated from the script before—it's safer to give people what they expect, to play the role they've assigned me.
But not today. For years, I've proudly owned the reputation, accepted it as part of the package of being Logan McCoy, hockey star. Today, for the first time, it felt false. Hollow.
I step out into the lobby, checking my phone.
No new messages from Reese yet. That's okay.
I'm surprised to find I don't feel the usual urgency, the need to lock down plans before she changes her mind.
Instead, there's a calm certainty that I'll see her again, and when I do, I want to be better than the persona I've hidden behind for so long.
I pause outside the building, looking up at the slice of sky visible between Chicago's towers.
The air feels different somehow, charged with possibility.
Or maybe it's just me that's different. Either way, as I head back to my car, I find myself smiling again, that same silly smile from this morning that no amount of teasing could wipe away.