Chapter 14
Logan
Tyler breaks free from my hand and runs toward the playground, his light-up dinosaur sneakers flashing. A mom on the nearest bench glances up from her phone, does a double-take, then leans toward her friend. "Is that—?" I catch before Tyler's shouts drown out the rest.
"Daddy! The slide! The big one!" He's pointing at the spiral slide, already heading for the ladder.
"Stay where I can see you," I call out, but he's gone, scrambling up the rungs.
Reese walks beside me as we follow. "Relax. He's fine."
"Easy for you to say. That mom's already taking pictures."
"She's taking pictures of her own kid." But Reese looks, and the woman's phone is definitely aimed our way. "Okay, maybe not."
Tyler rockets down the slide and immediately races back to the ladder. On his third trip down, he tries going backward and gets stuck halfway, legs kicking.
"I'm stuck! Daddy!"
I jog over, reaching up to help him wiggle free. Two dads by the swings are definitely watching now. One pulls out his phone.
"There you go, bud."
"Again!" Tyler shoots down properly this time, then runs over, grabbing my hand with his sweaty little fingers. "I'm hungry."
I dig through the backpack Jessica packed. Everything's in tiny containers with labels.
'Snack 1.' 'Snack 2.' 'Emergency cookies.' I pull out a juice box. The straw bends, won't go through the hole. I push harder. Apple juice explodes across my shirt.
"Shit—shoot. Sorry."
Tyler giggles. "You said a bad word!"
"No, I said shoot." I grab napkins, dabbing at my shirt. The juice is already sticky.
Reese takes over, fixing the juice box with practiced ease. "Let's save this for later."
I find an applesauce pouch next. The cap's sealed tight. When it finally twists open, applesauce globs onto my thumb.
"I can do it!" Tyler snatches the pouch before I can clean it, sucking it down like he's done it a thousand times. Probably has.
"Can I have cookies now?"
The container labeled 'Snack 1' has animal crackers. I open it carefully. An elephant cracks in half.
Tyler's entire body goes rigid. "Noooo! You broke it! You broke my elephant!" His volume escalates from zero to shrieking in two seconds. "I wanted THAT one! The good one!"
His face turns red. Actual tears roll down his cheeks. Every person in the park stares at us—the hockey player who can't handle a three-year-old crying over a cookie.
"Tyler, look, there are more elephants—"
"NO! That was the BEST elephant!" He throws himself on the ground. Actually throws himself down, kicking mulch everywhere.
Reese drops to her knees beside him, ignoring the wood chips. "Oh no! The elephant broke? Let me see." She picks up both pieces. "Wait a minute. Tyler, look. Now you have TWO elephants. A mama and a baby."
Tyler's wailing stops like someone hit pause. He sits up, mulch in his hair. "Two?"
"See? The baby elephant wants to find his mama. Can you help them find each other?"
Tyler takes both pieces, suspicion replaced by interest. "The baby's lost?"
"Very lost. He needs a brave boy to help him."
And just like that, Tyler's marching the cookie pieces around, narrating their reunion.
The other parents go back to their business. Crisis over.
"How?" I ask Reese.
"Practice. Last week I had a kid lose it because his sandwich was cut in triangles not squares."
We stay another hour. Tyler asks me to push him on the swing ("Higher! HIGHER!"), claims there are dragons living under the slide (we have to negotiate safe passage), and needs to pee right when we're farthest from the bathroom. I carry him running while he shouts, "I gotta go NOW!"
We make it. Barely.
And just like that, it’s time to head home.
Walking to Jessica's apartment, Tyler holds my hand with his sticky fingers—when did they get sticky again?—dragging something he picked up along the sidewalk.
At Jessica's door, Tyler won't let go of my jeans while I try to help with his shoes.
"Stay," he says, voice muffled against my leg. "Don't go."
I crouch down. Three-year-old logic required. "Remember what happens at eight o'clock?"
"Story?"
"Exactly. Special FaceTime story. But only if you take your bath and eat dinner first."
"What story?"
"That's the surprise."
"About dinosaurs?"
"Maybe."
"With hockey?"
"We'll see."
Jessica opens the door before I knock. Her hair's pulled back, yoga pants and an old t-shirt. She looks tired. "Hi sweetie. Did you have fun?"
"Mama! Daddy broke a elephant but then Reese made TWO elephants and we saw dragons and I peed in the potty at the park!" Tyler releases me to throw himself at his mother's legs.
Jessica's eyebrows rise. "Busy day."
"The elephant thing was a cookie," I explain. "The dragons were pretend. The bathroom was real."
"I figured." She peels Tyler off her legs. "Time to go in."
"Nooo." Tyler reaches for me again. "Five more minutes?"
"No more minutes. But Daddy's calling tonight, remember?"
Tyler looks between us, lower lip wobbling. Then he spots something behind his mom. "Is that mac and cheese?"
"Maybe."
"Bye Daddy! Bye Reese!" He races inside.
Jessica almost smiles. "Eight o'clock?"
"Eight o'clock."
She nods and closes the door.
It’s seven fifty-nine. I've checked the clock twelve times in two minutes.
"Sit," Reese says from the couch. "You're making me nervous."
I sit. Stand up. Sit again. "What if he forgot?"
"Three-year-olds don't forget promises about stories."
Eight o'clock. The phone rings immediately.
Tyler's giant eyeball fills the screen. "DADDY! HI!"
"Buddy, move the phone back—"
"I CAN SEE UP YOUR NOSE!"
"Tyler, give me the phone," Jessica's voice comes from off-screen. The image swings wildly—ceiling, Tyler's forehead, what might be a lamp—before settling on Tyler's face. He's wearing dinosaur pajamas, hair sticking straight up in back.
"Story time! Fred the dancing di-saur!"
"Fred?"
"The dancing di-saur! With hockey! You said!"
No, he said. But okay. "Right. Fred the dancing dinosaur who plays hockey."
"He's a T-Rex!" Tyler bounces, making the screen shake. "With tiny arms like this!" He demonstrates, the phone tilting dangerously.
"Exactly. So Fred loved to dance, but his tiny arms made it hard—"
"Why?"
"Well, arms help with balance—"
"Why?"
This is going to be a long story.
"Because... they just do. Anyway, Fred saw some people playing hockey—"
"On ice?"
"Yes."
"Was it cold?"
"Very cold."
"Did Fred have skates?"
"No, that's the problem—"
"My friend Jamie has skates. They're blue."
"That's cool. So Fred—"
"I want blue skates."
I look at Reese. She's trying not to laugh.
"Maybe Santa will bring some," I try. "Back to Fred—"
"SANTA!" Tyler shrieks. "Is Santa coming soon?"
"Not yet. Fred wanted to play hockey but his arms were too small for a stick—"
"Use his tail!" Tyler shouts, like this is new information.
"Great idea! So Fred used his tail. But when he stepped on the ice, he slipped everywhere!" I make whooshing sounds. Tyler laughs so hard he falls over, vanishing from frame.
"Tyler, sit still," Jessica says from somewhere.
Tyler reappears, upside down. "Did Fred fall?"
"Almost," Reese joins in. "But Coach Reese helped him."
"That's YOU!" Tyler points at the screen, poking it. The image goes black for a second.
"Right, that's me. I showed Fred how to balance."
"And Fred practiced and practiced," I continue in my best dinosaur voice. "Until finally—"
"He SCORED!" Tyler yells.
"How did you know?"
"That's what happens! The good guy always scores!"
Hard to argue with that logic.
"Time for bed," Jessica appears, reaching for the phone.
"Noooo! More Fred!"
"Fred needs to sleep too," I try.
"Fred doesn't sleep! He's a di-saur!"
"Even dinosaurs sleep."
"No! They roar all night! ROAAAAAR!"
"Tyler, bedtime. Now." Jessica's voice has that mom edge.
Tyler's face goes mulish. Then: "Daddy, are you coming tomorrow?"
"Not tomorrow, buddy. But Thursday—you're coming to my house for Thanksgiving, remember? With turkey and everything."
Tyler's eyes go wide. "Turkey? At your house?"
"Yep. You're spending the whole day with me."
"And Reese?"
"And Reese. And some of my friends. My friend Sully really wants to meet you."
"Does he play hockey?"
"He's the best hockey player."
"Better than you?"
I laugh. "Sometimes."
Jessica leans into frame. "Ten o'clock Thursday morning for pickup?"
"I'll be there," I confirm. "Tyler, should we bring your dinosaurs?"
"ALL of them?"
Jessica interrupts. "Three dinosaurs. We discussed this."
"But Mom—"
"Three."
Tyler considers this. "Fred comes?"
"Fred definitely comes," I assure him.
"Okay! Thursday! With turkey!" He bounces again, pajama top riding up to show his belly.
"All right, that's really it now," Jessica says firmly. "Say goodnight."
"Wait! Pinky promise about Thursday?"
I hold my pinky to the camera. Tyler jabs at the screen trying to hook it.
"That counts," Jessica says. "Logan, don't let him eat too much pie. Sugar makes him crazy."
"Noted."
"I'm talking multiple slices. He'll try to charm everyone into giving him more."
"I'M NOT CHARMING!" Tyler shouts.
"Very charming," Jessica corrects. "Goodnight."
"Night Daddy! Night Reese! Tell Fred about turkey!"
The screen goes black.
I put the phone down. Reese scoots closer on the couch.
I pull her against me. Thursday suddenly feels huge—my son, my team, my family all in one room.
"Can you believe this?" I say. "Six months ago, I didn't even know Tyler existed. Now I'm hosting Thanksgiving with my three-year-old son."
"And I'm helping you navigate toddler meltdowns and planning turkey dinner."
"It's insane." I run my hand through my hair. "Sully meeting Tyler. My son hanging out with my teammates. Like this is my real life now—being someone's dad."
"Are you ready for it?"
"What if Tyler gets overwhelmed with all those people? What if he cries the whole time? What if the guys don't know how to act around a kid? The boys have zero filter. What if they teach Tyler some horrible word?"
Reese laughs. "Then Jessica will definitely murder you."
"I'm serious. This is the first holiday where I'm the dad. Where I'm responsible for making it special for him." I pause.
"It’s going to be perfect for Tyler. You've thought about which teammates to invite. You know he can't have too much pie."
"Jessica reminded me about the pie."
"But you listened." She shifts to look at me. "Logan, do you realize what we're building here? You and Tyler, us, this whole messy complicated thing?"
"A family?" The word comes out like a question.
"Yeah. A weird one with shared custody and teammates who curse too much and a kindergarten teacher who stages elephant cookie interventions. But still."
"I really hope Tyler's going to remember this Thanksgiving," I say quietly. "His first one with me."
"So we'll make it a good memory."
"Elena's going to boss everyone around in the kitchen."
"Obviously. And Nate will drink too much wine and tell embarrassing stories."
"Sully will let Tyler have three pieces of pie behind my back."
"At least."
We sit there, imagining it. This impossible new life taking shape. My phone still has Tyler's fingerprints on the screen. My shirt still has apple juice stains.
"Hey Logan?"
"Yeah?"
"We should probably clean that shirt before Thursday. And maybe child-proof your apartment."
I look around at my penthouse—glass tables, sharp corners, white furniture.
"Shit. I didn't think about that."
"We have four days."
"We?"
"You think I'm letting you child-proof alone? You'll probably bubble-wrap everything."
"That's not a bad idea actually."
“Maybe I’ll just make him wear a helmet and hockey gloves. He can’t break anything that way or get pie in his mouth.”
She laughs, and I kiss her, tasting her cherry lip gloss.
"Come on," she says, pulling me up. "Let's deal with that shirt. Then we can make a list of everything that could potentially kill a three-year-old in your apartment."
"That's romantic."
"Welcome to dating with a kid."
Dating. Is that what we're doing? It feels bigger than that. But I follow her to the kitchen, already mentally cataloging every sharp edge Tyler could crash into Thursday.
My first Thanksgiving as someone's dad.
No pressure at all.