Chapter 16
Logan
The charter's engines vibrate through my dress shoes as I climb the airstairs, December wind cutting across the tarmac at O'Hare's private terminal.
My garment bag weighs the same as always, but my phone's heavier—seventeen photos of Tyler from yesterday, two voice memos of him explaining why pterodactyls aren't actually dinosaurs, and a text from Reese that just says "miss you already" with a photo of her morning coffee in the mug I left at her place.
"Mac's here!" Schmitty calls from his window seat. "Now we can finally fucking take off."
"I'm three minutes late," I say, shoving my bag overhead.
"Three minutes of staring at your phone in the parking lot," Benny chirps from across the aisle. "Saw you sitting there like a teenager waiting for a text back."
"Fuck off."
The plane fills with these overgrown teenagers arguing over movie choices, complaining about seat assignments, cracking beers before we've pushed back from the gate. We have a green light to do some team bonding because we don’t play until tomorrow.
"Gentlemen!" Tuck stands in the aisle, deck of cards raised. "Mac took eight hundred off me last trip. Time for revenge."
"Deal me in." I drop into my usual seat up front. "Your money spends the same in LA."
Schmitty slides in across from me, Kovy takes the diagonal. Within minutes we've got drinks on tray tables, chips scattered between us.
"Heard mini-Mac's been a whiz with dinosaur facts," Schmitty says, touching his wedding ring—his tell when he's got shit cards. "My sister's kid went through that phase. Everything was T-Rex this, velociraptor that."
"Tyler's convinced we need a triceratops for defense," I say, raising fifty. "Asked if they make hockey helmets with horns."
"That's fucking adorable," Kovy says, then grimaces. "Don't tell anyone I said adorable."
"Too late," Benny calls out. "Kovy's gone soft!"
"I will end you."
My phone buzzes after we’ve been playing for about an hour—Reese sending a photo from her classroom. Fourth graders covered in glitter, construction paper chaos everywhere. Holiday concert prep. I may never get the glitter out of my hair. How's the flight?
I type back one-handed: Kovy just said 'adorable' about Tyler. Marking it on the calendar.
"Saw that article about you," Tuck says casually, studying his cards. "The one about hockey players with kids. You're mentioned."
My shoulders tense. "What article?"
"Some blog thing. Nothing bad, just noted you've been playing better lately. Speculation about why."
"All in," Schmitty announces, pushing his chips forward, still scratching that ring.
"Either I get it all back or I'm done."
"Call." I flip my cards. Full house.
"Motherfucker!" Schmitty throws down his pair of jacks. "How do you always know?"
"Dad instincts," Tuck suggests. "Can sense bullshit a mile away now."
I pocket the cash—just over a thousand—and lean back as the game breaks up. Outside the window, clouds stretch endlessly below us, painted gold by the setting sun.
"Mind if I sit?" Sully asks, loosens his tie, while dropping into the vacant seat.
"Nice win," he says. "Though I bet you weren't even trying."
"What?"
"Your head's in Chicago, but somehow you're playing cards and hockey better than ever. Seen it before."
He studies me. "First road trip after my oldest was born, I played like garbage. Kept thinking about everything I was missing. Then my wife told me something—'You don’t have to choose between hockey and family. They’ve both chosen you. All you have to do is show up and do your best.'"
He lets that sit.
"Took me too long to figure out she was right. You're figuring it out faster." He stands, straightens his tie. "Good thing too. Next three weeks are gonna be brutal on the schedule. We need you playing like you have been."
He claps my shoulder and returns to his seat.
My phone buzzes again. Text from Jessica: Tyler's asking when you’ll call. I told him after his nap but he doesn't understand time zones.
Shit. I'd promised to call him before his lunch. Already fucking up and I've been gone four hours.
I text back: Sorry. I’ll call when I get to my room. Around 7 your time.
The Ritz-Carlton downtown rises against the LA skyline, all glass and minimalism. My room on the twentieth floor overlooks the city, sun dropping toward the ocean. I immediately pull up Jessica's contact.
Tyler's forehead fills the screen.
"DADDY!"
"Back up, buddy. Let me see you."
The camera pulls back. He's in his Buzz Lightyear pajamas, hair wild, clutching my old practice puck against his chest.
"You didn't call at lunch," he says, lower lip trembling. "I waited and waited."
Ouch. "I'm sorry, T-Rex. The plane took a long time."
"When are you coming home?"
"Soon, buddy."
"When is soon?" His voice rises. "Tomorrow?"
"Not tomorrow, but—"
"I want you HOME!" The camera shakes as he stamps his foot. "Come home NOW!"
"Tyler, Daddy has to work—" I hear Jessica say.
"NO!" He throws the puck down. "No work! HOME!"
Jessica's hand appears on his shoulder. "Tyler, remember we talked about Daddy's job?"
"I don't LIKE his job!" Tyler's face crumples. "I want Daddy HERE!"
He runs off screen. Jessica picks up the phone, her face apologetic. "He's been like this all day. Wouldn't eat his regular lunch, only wanted what he calls 'Daddy breakfast'—your protein shake recipe. I don't know how to make it."
"Banana, peanut butter, milk, protein powder—"
"Logan, he'll be okay. He's just adjusting."
But I hear Tyler crying in the background, and I'm two thousand miles away with nothing but a recipe that won't fix this.
"Can you try again? Tell him I'll call tomorrow?"
"Of course." She pauses. "He's been carrying that puck everywhere. Slept with it last night."
The call ends. I sit on the hotel bed, still in my travel suit, staring at the blank screen.
Schmitty texts about dinner. I change and head down, but my head's still in Chicago.
Our private room at the steakhouse buzzes with loud men and bad jokes. I cut into my ribeye while Petey tells a story about his last road trip."—and then the lawyer says visitation's being reviewed because of the travel schedule," he's saying. "Like playing hockey makes me a bad father."
"That's fucked," Kovy says.
"What's fucked is paying for a lawyer who can't win." Petey stabs his potato. "Sorry, Mac. Not trying to scare you. Your situation's different."
"Mac wouldn't know," Benny interrupts, looking at his phone. "He's too busy checking his texts during team meetings. Coach noticed, by the way."
I look up sharply. "When?"
"In our last meeting. You were staring at your phone when he was talking about the neutral zone adjustments."
Fuck. I hadn't even realized.
"Just saying," Benny shrugs, "Coach sees everything."
The conversation shifts to tomorrow's game plan, but I'm only half-listening. By the time we get back to the hotel, after signing some autographs for fans in the lobby, my head is full from overthinking Tyler's meltdown.
Back in my room, I FaceTime Reese. Her face fills the screen, hair in that messy bun, but there's tension around her eyes.
"Hey stranger," she says.
"That's my shirt." I tease.
She's wearing my Northwestern shirt, glitter stains on the collar.
"Looks better on you." I prop the phone against the lamp. "Rough day?"
"Parent conference from hell." She shifts, the shirt sliding off one shoulder so I can see the top of her chest.
"The mom thinks I'm 'too young and inexperienced' to properly assess her son's reading level. Apparently, twenty-six is the new sixteen."
"Want me to call her? Explain that you're extremely experienced?"
"At teaching, Logan."
"That's what I meant."
She laughs, but it's tired. "The worst part? She might request a transfer to Mrs. Henderson's class. I've had Kevin all year."
The screen freezes, her face caught mid-word. The connection stutters back.
"—and then my ex texted about getting his stuff from my apartment," she's saying. "Six months later and suddenly he needs his college sweatshirt."
"Your ex?"
"Not important." She waves it off, but I catch the tightness in her jaw. "Show me your room."
I pan the phone across the sterile space—oversized bed, floor-to-ceiling windows, excessive pillows.
"Looks lonely," she says when I flip back.
"It is. Too quiet."
"Poor baby. All alone in that big bed." She bites her lip, shifts again. The jersey rides up, showing a strip of her taut stomach. "I graded papers in the spot where we—"
The screen freezes again. When it returns, she's laughing.
"This is frustrating," she says. "Technology's supposed to make distance easier."
"Nothing makes this easier." I watch as she lazily pulls up the the jersey hem showing more of her belly. "I already messed up. Forgot to call Tyler earlier."
"You're doing your best."
"My best has him crying into Jessica's couch because I’m not there."
"Logan—"
"I know. I just... I can score goals, I can win games, but I can't make my kid understand time zones."
She leans closer to the camera. "Remember what you told me about Tyler? That he's tough?"
"Yeah."
"He gets that from you. Both of you will figure this out."
The connection glitches again, her face pixelating. When it clears, she's lying down, phone above her, hair spread across her pillow.
"I should let you sleep," she says smiling while she caresses her belly, touching the top of her panties playfully. "Big game tomorrow."
“You’re teasing me!”
She smiles. “Maybe, a little. Trying to give you sweet dreams.”
"Can't sleep in hotels anymore. Too quiet. I think I need one of those noise machines."
“You look hot in that stolen shirt.”
"It’s borrowed," she corrects, pulling the collar up, inhaling. "God, that smells so good. I’m going to make you wear it again and I'm not giving it back."
"When I get home, you won't need it."
The screen freezes on her face, eyes dark, lips parted. By the time it unfreezes, she's saying goodnight.
The Arena thunders with eighteen thousand fans . During warm-ups, my old teammate, La Fleur, glides to the glass near the tunnel. His son presses his small palms against the plexiglass barrier. He strips his glove, places his hand against the boy's. The kid lights up.
I stretch along the boards, watching. La Fleur catches my eye as he pushes back toward center ice, gives me a nod. Just a nod, but I understand it completely. He texted me some words of encouragement after the news about Jessica and Tyler made the rounds.
The anthem begins. I stand at the blue line, hand over heart, spotting fathers and sons throughout the lower bowl, some in matching jerseys. The anthem ends, the crowd erupts, and I'm ready.
First period, we're cycling in their zone. I'm at the point when I see the opening—their defenseman cheating toward Benny. I slide down, find the soft space. Kovy's pass hits my tape perfectly. I redirect it high glove. The goal horn sounds.
1-0.
I point to the camera in the corner—I’m hoping Tyler will see it tomorrow—then skate past their bench. La Fleur makes eye contact again and gives me a little head nod—which an opponent never does. Recognition. I appreciate it.
Second period, Collins drives the net and Adams crushes him from the blind side. Elbow high, intent clear. Collins crumples.
My gloves hit the ice. I intercept Adams at center.
"You want someone your own size?"
Adams grins, showing that missing tooth. "Heard you went soft, McCoy. Daddy duty making you weak?"
The refs back off. We grab each other’s sweaters at the neck.
Adams swings first, catches me in the ear.
I respond a right cross that snaps his head back.
We grapple. I land one more hard shot and his nose starts to bleed.
The linesmen start to wrap us up, and I take one last swing and catch his helmet with my fist, opening a gash across my knuckles.
"Go fuck yourself, Adams, you piece of shit. Pick on someone your own size." I tell him as they pull us apart.
Five minutes in the box. My hand is bloodied and sore, but Collins is OK and the message was sent. Fuck with my boys, you answer to me. Worth it.
Third period, protecting a 2-1 lead. Tuck springs me with a stretch pass. Their defenseman has position, but I see Benny driving the far post. For a split second, I think about Tyler's lunch, about Jessica's tired voice—
Focus.
I sauce the pass over the goalie's stick. Benny buries it.
3-1.
Coach catches my eye as I skate to the bench. A look that says he saw the hesitation. Brief, but he saw it.
In the locker room, while the trainer is wrapping my hand, I feel the game settling into my bones. Good game. Great game, even. But my knuckles throb, and somewhere in Chicago, Tyler's sleeping with my practice puck.
"You were locked in tonight," Petey says, unlacing his skates.
"Good night."
"More than good. You're playing like a man possessed."
The media floods in. Standard questions until one reporter asks, "You seemed to lose focus for a second in the third. What happened?"
"Hockey's a fast game," I say. "Sometimes you think, sometimes you just play."
But he's right. For one second, I was in Chicago instead of LA.
Later, on the bus back to the hotel, I close my eyes and see Tyler's face crumpling when I couldn't tell him when "soon" was. My knuckles pulse with each heartbeat. The hotel room will be too quiet again tonight.
The bus fills with post-game chatter. Guys making plans for the night. Five years ago, I'd be leading the charge. Now I just want to sleep.
Small victories.
More games to play. More goodnight calls to make. More nights in quiet rooms.
But Christmas is coming.
I've never given a shit about Christmas before. Another day off. Another excuse to drink too much at team parties. But this year I have a son, a son old enough to make Christmas memories with his dad. Old enough for it to matter.
I already ordered his present.
And Reese—I know what I'm getting her too. We were walking down Michigan Avenue when she pointed it out in a jewelry shop window. Been thinking about it all day.
The bus is quiet now. Everyone's asleep or watching movies on their phones. I close my eyes and for once, I'm not thinking about the next game or the next shift.
I'm thinking about Christmas morning. About being home.
Soon.