Chapter 21 Logan #2
In the kitchen, I scribble a note for Reese: Meeting with team brass. Back ASAP. Love you. Then, almost as an afterthought: No regrets.
The drive to the facility only takes fifteen minutes.
I turn off sports radio after the first mention of my name, opting instead for silence.
The building looms gray against the winter sky, familiar yet suddenly foreign.
I've walked through these doors thousands of times—as a rookie fighting for a spot, as an alternate captain proving my worth, as team captain leading through slumps and streaks.
Never like this, though. Never with the weight of so much more than hockey on my shoulders.
In the players' lot Schmitty pulls in beside me. Probably here early for some treatment. He climbs out, coffee in hand, and gives me a nod.
"For what it's worth, I'd have done the same thing." He shrugs. "Guy was in your kid's face."
I nod, grateful but unable to find words.
Inside, a few of the rehabbing players are here early getting in some work, they eye me cautiously, like I might explode again. Tuck breaks the tension, slapping my shoulder as he passes. "Nice form on that throw, Mac. Next time aim for his nuts."
A surprised laugh escapes me. "Good call! Thanks for the idea."
The walk upstairs to the executive floor is excruciating. When I hit the top step, I find Sully waiting in the hallway, arms crossed.
"They've been in there fifteen minutes already," he says. "Not sure how this is going to go."
"Great."
"I’ve got your back, Mac." His voice drops. "The boys are behind you."
It's a small comfort as I push open the conference room door to face the firing squad—the GM is at the head of the table, Coach is to his right, the PR Director is beside him, and two suits I recognize as legal counsel. Not exactly a welcome committee.
"Logan," the GM nods, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. "Have a seat."
I do, feeling like I'm sixteen again, called into the principal's office. The wall-mounted TV behind them plays muted footage of last night's incident on a continuous loop—me, face twisted with rage, hurling that camera. My son's terrified face. Over and over.
"Of course, you know why we’re here," he begins.
"Obviously."
He slides a folder across the polished table. "This organization has stood by you through a lot, Logan. The unexpected fatherhood situation. The public custody fiasco. We've been patient and supportive."
"I appreciate that."
"But last night crosses a line." His voice hardens. "You're the captain of this team. The face of this franchise. And that—" he jabs a finger toward the TV, "—is not what we expect from our leadership."
Coach Martinez hasn't spoken yet, but his eyes haven't left mine either. I can't read him—disappointment? Anger? Concern?
"I understand. I snapped. The photographer was harassing my family," I say, measuring each word carefully. "My three-year-old son was terrified."
"We understand the circumstances," PR cuts in. "But your response has created a significant situation." She opens another folder, spreading printouts across the table. Headlines scream from each page:
MCCOY MELTDOWN: HOCKEY STAR ASSAULTS PHOTOGRAPHER
CAPTAIN CRUNCH: BLADES' LEADER LOSES CONTROL
CUSTODY BATTLE TURNS VIOLENT AS MCCOY ATTACKS PRESS
"The photographer is threatening to press charges," she continues. "We're already in contact with his representatives about a settlement."
"A settlement?" My voice rises despite my efforts to stay calm. "The guy stuck a camera in my kid's face after Reese asked him to back off."
"We're not here to debate what happened," Chandler says flatly. "We're here to address the aftermath. Your focus seems increasingly... divided, Logan. The team needs your full attention, especially heading into playoffs."
There it is—the ultimatum, veiled but unmistakable. Choose. Hockey or family drama. The team or the custody battle.
Coach Martinez finally speaks, his voice quieter than the others. "Logan, I've known you a long time. This isn't you."
"With all due respect, Coach, this is exactly me. I do the same thing for my team on the ice." I lean forward. "I'm a father protecting his family. I'm a man standing up for the woman he loves. If that's incompatible with wearing the 'C' on my chest, then—"
"No one's talking about that, Logan," Chandler interrupts, though his tone suggests otherwise.
PR slides a prepared statement across the table. "We recommend you issue this apology immediately, followed by a brief media blackout. The focus should return to hockey, not your personal life."
I scan the neatly typed paragraphs—generic remorse for my "regrettable actions," commitment to "anger management resources," promises to "separate personal matters from professional obligations.
" Corporate bullshit that throws Reese under the bus and makes me sound like I'm choosing hockey over my family.
I push it back across the table. "No."
"No?" The GM's eyebrows shoot up.
"No," I repeat, stronger this time. "I won't issue that statement. I won't apologize for protecting my family. And I sure as hell won't pretend they don't exist to make the team's image more palatable."
The room goes silent. Coach Martinez's expression shifts slightly—is that the hint of a smile?
"Instead," I continue, "I want to issue a statement. Today. On my terms."
"Absolutely not," PR says immediately. "That's—"
"Let him finish," Coach interrupts, surprising everyone.
I take a breath. "I've been silent while Jessica's lawyer feeds lies to the press.
Silent while they call Reese a homewrecker, a gold digger.
Silent while they paint me as an absentee father who suddenly decided to play house.
The narrative is completely fucked, and my silence has only made it worse. "
I stand up, unable to sit still any longer, pacing as the words flow faster than I can filter them.
"I want to set the record straight. Yes, I overreacted last night.
Yes, I let my temper get the best of me.
But I'm done hiding. I'm done pretending.
I have a son I love more than anything. I have a partner who's been unfairly dragged through the mud for loving both of us.
And I have a team I'm fully committed to leading—but not at the expense of denying my family. "
"Logan," PR objects, "the optics—"
"Fuck the optics!" My fist hits the table harder than intended.
I take another breath, lowering my voice.
"Sorry. But I'm done worrying about optics.
I care about reality. And the reality is, I'm fighting for custody of my son with a woman who's using the media to strengthen her case.
I'm watching Reese get destroyed online for being in my life.
I'm trying to protect my family while still being the leader this team needs. "
Coach Martinez leans forward. "And you think a statement helps how, exactly?"
"It lets me control the narrative for once. It lets me be honest instead of hiding. And it shows everyone that I'm not ashamed of our family—that I'll stand up for Tyler and for Reese no matter what."
The room falls silent again. The staff exchange glances. The legal team scribbles notes.
"We'd need to craft it carefully" PR finally says.
"Fine," I agree. "But I say what I need to say about my family. No corporate sanitizing."
More silence. Then, surprisingly, Coach Martinez nods and says, "I agree with Logan."
A lengthy debate follows about the timing and the risks. I stand my ground on the important points while conceding on others. By the time we finish, it's nearly ten, and we've hammered out a framework that everyone can live with, if not love.
As the meeting breaks up, my phone buzzes continuously—dozens of notifications. I expect more news alerts, more crises, but instead find something else entirely. My teammates have started posting messages of support:
Families come first. Always. #StandWithMcCoy
Nobody messes with the Captain's kid. Period. #BladesFamilyStrong
Been on the receiving end of Mac's protection for 7 seasons. Wouldn't have it any other way. #TeamMcCoy
Coach Martinez is standing next to me and sees the messages, a bemused expression on his face.
"They respect loyalty," he says simply. "So do I." He whispers.
He leaves me standing there, the weight on my shoulders somehow both heavier and lighter. I've drawn a line in the sand today—made it clear that I won't sacrifice my family for hockey, my personal life for public image. Even if there are consequences both professional and personal.
But as I head for the elevator, back straight, jaw set, I feel more certain than I have in weeks. Some battles you fight because you might win. Others you fight because not fighting isn't an option—win or lose, you stand your ground.
This is my ground. My family. My fight.