Chapter 12
Logan
Iwalk into the conference room like I've just dropped my gloves to fight, jaw clenched, every muscle tense with anticipation.
The room smells strange, like something is mildewing in a nearby trash can over by the overcooked coffee, a combination that turns my already-churning stomach.
Last night, Reese heard me out—really heard me—but her believing me doesn't make this easier.
Nothing could make this easier. I'm about to face a woman I barely remember and discuss a son I didn't know existed until the gala.
Our team's legal counsel nods at me from the head of the table.
She's flanked by the PR director and someone from player development—a small army assembled to manage this crisis.
My crisis. I take the chair she indicates, grateful for the solid weight of the table between me and the empty chairs across from us.
"She'll be here shortly," Legal says, sliding a folder toward me. "We've prepared some initial documentation about paternity testing and a framework for what comes next."
I don't touch the folder. Don't want to make this more real than it already is. "Has she agreed to the test?"
"Yes. She says she welcomes it." PR's voice is carefully neutral. "She says she has nothing to hide."
The door opens before I can respond. Jessica Stone walks in, and the mood shifts.
She looks different from the night of the gala—hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, wearing a navy blouse and slacks instead of a cocktail dress.
A tall man in a charcoal suit follows, carrying a leather portfolio. Her lawyer, I assume. No Tyler.
Our eyes lock. I search her face for something familiar—a spark of recognition, some hint of our history—but find only wary determination. She studies me just as intently, maybe looking for the same thing.
"Ms. Stone," Legal says, standing to shake hands. "Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat."
Jessica sits directly across from me, her lawyer to her right. She keeps her shoulders square, chin lifted. "Logan." Her voice is steady and I feel like I’ve heard it before.
"Jessica." My throat feels like sandpaper. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."
Her lawyer begins unloading documents. "We appreciate the prompt response from the Blades organization. My client has been attempting to establish paternity and appropriate support for some time now."
"Let's start with introductions," our legal counsel suggests smoothly.
The formalities proceed—names, titles, roles in this mess.
I barely listen. I'm too busy studying Jessica's face, trying to piece together memories of our night together.
A charity event. The hotel bar afterward.
Her laugh. A brief connection that somehow produced a child.
"I'd like to hear directly from Jessica," I say, interrupting whatever legal dance we're doing. "About Tyler. And why I'm just learning about him now."
Jessica's lawyer shifts, but she puts her hand on his arm. "It's okay, David." She turns to face me fully, meeting my eyes. "What do you want to know?"
Everything. Nothing. "Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?"
She takes a measured breath. "I tried to reach you after I found out. Called the team office three times. Left messages with someone in PR. Sent letters. Even tried through social media. Nothing got through."
"That's impossible," I say, too quickly. "I never received any messages. No calls, no letters, nothing."
Her lips press into a thin line. "Well, I sent them. Whether they reached you or were intercepted by your handlers isn't something I can speak to."
PR clears her throat. "We're conducting a thorough audit of all communications. There appear to have been some... gaps in our protocols."
Translation: Someone fucked up. Or someone made a decision to shield me.
"After a while," Jessica continues, "I stopped trying. I figured you'd made your choice." Her voice hardens slightly. "It's not like you gave me your personal number that night. Just said to call the team if I needed anything."
The memory surfaces—me, scribbling the team office number on a hotel notepad. Standard procedure. Protect the personal line. Keep control.
"What changed?" I ask. "Why the gala?"
Jessica's eyes flicker with something—hesitation, maybe guilt.
"Tyler's getting older. Asking questions.
We're struggling financially. I've been working reduced hours so I can be with him more, which means less income.
" She swallows. "And then I saw the announcement about you speaking at the gala about responsibility and mentorship. It felt... wrong. Hypocritical."
"So you decided to ambush me?" The words come out sharper than intended.
"I decided my son deserves to know his father. And yes, I wanted you to face what you've been missing." Her voice doesn't waver. "Three years of his life. First steps. First words. First everything."
Each milestone hits like a slap. Things I can never get back. Moments forever lost.
"I would have been there." My voice drops. "If I had known, I would have been there."
"Would you have?" She studies me, searching for truth. "The famous Logan McCoy, changing diapers and walking a colicky baby at 3 a.m.? Giving up your—your 'playboy lifestyle'?"
I grip the edge of the table. "You didn't give me a chance."
"And I regret that now," she says, softening slightly. "Tyler needs his father. I see that more clearly every day."
The lawyer speaks up. "My client is prepared to establish a custody arrangement that works for all parties, contingent on paternity confirmation. We're also seeking appropriate child support, retroactive to Tyler's birth."
The words "child support" hang in the air like something solid. Something that can be measured, calculated, paid. But how do you calculate three years of absence? How do you pay back lost time?
"When can I meet him?" The question pushes past everything else.
Jessica looks surprised. "You want to meet him? Right away?"
"Yes." The certainty in my voice startles even me. "If he's mine—and we'll know soon enough—then I want to be in his life. Real involvement, not just checks."
She hesitates. "We need to do this carefully. He doesn't understand what's happening. He just knows I'm meeting his dad today."
Dad. The word makes my stomach drop.
"We'll need to develop a transition plan," her lawyer says. "Supervised visits initially, gradually increasing as Tyler becomes comfortable."
I nod, trying to look like a man who knows what he's doing instead of someone whose world has been completely upended. "Whatever's best for him."
The meeting drags into a second hour. I initial page six, where the paternity test procedure is outlined.
My pen hovers over paragraph nine—something about retroactive financial support that makes my agent shift in his seat.
I shake my head at him and sign anyway. When the PR director suggests a joint statement, I lean forward.
"No. Tyler stays out of the press." Jessica's eyes flick up at that, meeting mine for the first time in twenty minutes.
The wariness in them softens, just barely, at the edges.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, studying my face like she's memorizing it to describe to someone later.
When we finally stand to leave, the lawyers exchange handshakes and business cards. I find myself facing Jessica alone for a brief moment.
"He has your eyes," she says quietly. "And that little dimple when he smiles." Her own smile flickers briefly. "He's smart. Observant. Loves hockey already, though I didn't encourage it."
Something warm and terrifying spreads in my chest. Pride? Fear? Both?
"I'm sorry," she adds, surprising me. "Not for bringing him to the gala—he deserves to know you. But for how it happened. It was... messy."
"Yeah." I manage a dry laugh. "That's one word for it."
She holds my gaze. "I didn't do this for drama or money. I did it because he asks about his daddy. Because he deserves better than my made-up stories."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Thursday," she says. "After the results we'll set up a meeting. Maybe at his favorite place, the Children’s Museum. Neutral ground for him."
"Thursday," I repeat. Three days. Three days until I meet my son.
As she turns to leave, I blurt out: "What does he like? Books, toys... what should I bring?"
Jessica pauses, something softening in her face. "Dinosaurs. Especially T-Rex. And he loves those little cars—Hot Wheels."
"Thanks," I say, the word inadequate for what I'm feeling.
After she's gone, I sink back into my chair, staring at the stack of documents left behind.
Paperwork that will formalize a relationship that should have existed for three years already.
I close my eyes, picturing a little boy with my eyes and Jessica's determination, playing with toy cars, waiting to meet a father he's never known.
Thursday can't come soon enough. And yet I've never been more terrified of anything in my life.
Later, I stare at the whiteboard in the video room, the X's and O's of tomorrow's game plan blurring into meaningless squiggles.
My hand absently taps a marker against the table, the rhythm matching my racing thoughts.
Three days until I meet my son. Thursday.
What do you even say to a three-year-old stranger who shares your DNA?
Hey, buddy, sorry I missed the first three years of your life—want to play catch?
Jesus. The marker snaps in my grip, streaking blue across my palm like a bruise.
A knock at the door saves me from my spiral. Sully leans in without waiting for an answer, two steaming cups of coffee in his hands.
"Thought you might need this," he says, setting one cup in front of me. He kicks the door closed behind him and drops into the chair opposite mine. His silver hair catches the overhead lights, his face lined with concern he's not bothering to hide. "How'd it go with the lawyers?"