Chapter 21 Logan
Logan
Tyler laughs, milk dribbling down his chin as Nate makes a T-Rex shadow puppet on the wall with his hands.
I catch Reese's eye across the table, and for the first time in weeks, she's actually smiling, not just re-arranging her face.
Small moments. This is what we're fighting for—Tyler's laugh, Reese's real smile, Elena kicking Nate under the table when he pushes the joke too far.
Normal family chaos, the kind you take for granted until lawyers start measuring it out in visitation hours and emergency orders.
"T-Rex doesn't sound like that," Tyler protests, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before Reese can reach him with a napkin. "He roars like RAAAAAWR!"
His tiny-but-mighty roar turns heads at nearby tables. I should probably shush him, but I can't. Not tonight. Not when these moments feel increasingly rare, stolen between lawyer meetings and PR nightmares.
"My mistake," Nate concedes with mock seriousness. "Clearly you're the dinosaur expert at this table."
Elena leans over. "He's been practicing that roar for Tyler. Logan taught him."
"Guilty," I admit, ruffling Tyler's hair. "I think I may have the best T-Rex sound effects in Chicago."
Reese catches my eye again, and I know she's thinking what I am—how bizarre it feels to be sitting here pretending everything's normal when our lives have come under attack.
But we agreed: tonight is just for us. No lawyers, no custody talk, no mention of the headlines or Jessica's latest petition.
Just dinner, family, and Tyler's playful joy.
The check arrives, and we bundle up against the late January chill. Tyler looks very proud wearing his giant dinosaur hat with spikes down his back that Reese found at some children's boutique. He looks ridiculous and perfect.
I zip his coat up to his chin while Nate helps Elena with her scarf.
"Can I have ice cream at home?" Tyler asks, already negotiating his next treat.
"We'll see," Reese answers, which I’ve learned is parent code for "probably not but I don't want to fight about it now."
The restaurant door swings open, and we step into the crisp night air, our breath clouding in front of us.
Tyler grabs Reese's hand instinctively, his small fingers disappearing into hers.
I have to look away for a second because I feel emotional.
How can Jessica not see what I see—how natural they are together, how Tyler reaches for her without hesitation?
I'm still watching them when the first camera flash explodes in my peripheral vision and I’m blinded.
"McCoy! Over here!" A voice shouts from the darkness.
More flashes erupt, and suddenly we're surrounded by what seems like half a dozen photographers, their cameras held high, while a couple of reporters are shouting questions that blur together into white noise.
"Is this your girlfriend?"
"Reese! How does it feel to be in a custody battle?"
"Is it true you think the boy's mother is unstable?"
My body tenses, adrenaline flooding my system. Nate steps slightly in front of Elena, his arm extended in a protective gesture. I move toward Reese and Tyler, but a photographer cuts me off, backing Reese against the building wall, his lens pointing down and just inches from Tyler's face.
"Hey! Back up!" I shout, but more cameras close in.
Tyler's face contorts, his eyes wide with confusion and fear. He turns and tries to bury his face in Reese's coat, but the flashes keep coming. Reese pulls him closer, turning to shield him from the cameras, but they circle like vultures.
"You're scaring him," Reese says firmly to the nearest photographer, a stocky guy with a beard. "Please give us some space."
He ignores her, pushing closer. "Just one more of the kid. Looking right at the camera."
My wires cross. I lunge forward, putting myself between them. "Get that fucking camera out of my son's face."
The photographer sneers in what sounds like a New York accent, "You're a public figure. You and the people with you are fair game."
Before I can think, my hand shoots out, grabbing his camera. I yank it from his grasp and hurl it across the parking lot. It hits the pavement with a sickening crack, pieces skittering across the asphalt.
"What the fuck, man?" he shouts, his face reddening. "That's my property! I’m just doing my job!"
"And that's my family," I growl, stepping into his space. "You want to see what else I can break?"
Reese quickly lifts Tyler into her arms, and he begins to cry.
My fists are clenching and I’m seriously considering caving this guy’s face in.
"Logan, let's go, enough!" Nate says, his hand gripping my shoulder, which snaps me back to reality. "Now!"
More cameras flash, capturing everything—my rage, Tyler's tears, Reese's pale face. I know I've made a mistake even as I'm making it, but I can't stop the words pouring out.
"You parasites want a story? Here's your fucking story—stay away from my family or that broken camera will be the least of your troubles."
Elena has the car door open, and Reese climbs in with Tyler, still sobbing against her neck. Nate practically shoves me inside, slamming the door as photographers crowd around the windows, their flashes turning the interior into a strobe-lit nightmare.
"Go, go, go," Nate urges our driver, who pulls away from the curb with a screech.
Inside the car, the silence is broken only by Tyler's hiccuping cries. Reese rocks him gently, whispering reassurances. When she finally looks at me, there's no accusation in her gaze, which somehow makes it worse.
"I'm sorry," I say, the words inadequate even as they leave my mouth. "I didn't mean—"
"I know," she cuts me off, still rocking Tyler. "It's okay."
It's not okay. Nothing about this is okay.
By the time we reach home, Tyler has cried himself to sleep against Reese's shoulder.
I carry him to bed, carefully removing his shoes and jeans but leaving his Blades t-shirt on—waking him for a full pajama change seems cruel after the night he's had.
He stirs slightly as I tuck the blankets around him so I pick him up and take him to pee.
"The camera men were scary," he mumbles, eyes still closed.
"I know, buddy. I'm sorry." I smooth his hair back from his forehead. "You're safe now."
"You threw his camera." His voice is sleepy, drifting. He’s falling asleep on the toilet.
"I did. That wasn't a good choice."
I pick him up and carry him back to bed, tucking him in again.
"But you protected us." His eyes flutter open briefly, then close again. "Like a T-Rex daddy."
My throat tightens. "Go to sleep, T-Rex. I love you."
But he's already asleep, his breathing deep and steady. I stand watching him for a long moment before rejoining the others in the living room, where the TV is on, volume low.
"...hockey star Logan McCoy's very public meltdown outside Salvatore's restaurant tonight, where he was seen threatening photographers and destroying camera equipment..."
The footage is worse than I imagined. My face contorted with rage, veins bulging in my neck as I scream obscenities at the photographer. The camera catching Tyler's terrified face as Reese shields him. Me throwing the camera, the violent arc of it sailing through the air before shattering.
"Jesus," I mutter, sinking onto the couch.
"It's already trending," Elena says quietly, scrolling through her phone. "'Hockey Hothead Loses It' is the most common headline."
Nate turns up the volume slightly as the news anchor continues, "Sources close to Jessica Stone, mother of McCoy's three-year-old son, say this incident demonstrates exactly the concerns raised in recent custody filings about the child's wellbeing..."
"Turn it off," Reese says softly, and Nate immediately hits mute.
I drop my head into my hands. "I played right into their hands. Into Jessica's hands."
Reese sits beside me, her hand finding mine. "You were protecting your family."
"No, I made it worse." I look up at the frozen image on the screen—my son's face, tear-streaked and frightened. "I scared him worse than they did."
My phone buzzes. The team's GM. Of course. The damage control machine is already spinning up. Tomorrow there will be meetings, statements, maybe even fines.
But tonight, all I can think about is Tyler's tiny voice: You protected us. Like a T-Rex daddy.
Some protection. All I did was give Jessica more ammunition and traumatize my kid in the process.
"They're going to use this against us in court," I say, staring at the silent TV where social media reactions now scroll across the bottom of the screen. "Jessica's lawyers are probably drafting new motions right now."
"Then we'll fight them," Reese says with quiet determination. "Together."
I want to believe her, but as I look at the images cycling on the screen—Tyler's frightened face prominently featured in most—I've never felt less like a protector in my life.
The next morning my phone buzzes on the nightstand at 6:42, pulling me from a fitful sleep.
One eye open, I read the GM's text: "Conference room.
8 AM. Full management team." No "good morning," no cushioning, just seven words that might as well say "career execution: 8 AM sharp.
" Beside me, Reese stirs but doesn't wake.
I slip out of bed, careful not to disturb her.
Let her sleep—at least one of us should.
I stand under the shower too long, letting scalding water pound my shoulders while rehearsing explanations, apologies, defenses—none of which sound convincing even to me. The mirror shows dark circles under my eyes, a tight line where my mouth should be. Captain material, for sure.
Tyler's still sleeping when I peek into his room.
The nightlight casts strange shadows across his peaceful face.
Last night feels like a nightmare, but the bruises on my knuckles from where I hit the car door after the restaurant prove it wasn't. I close his door silently, a hollow ache spreading beneath my ribs.