Chapter 25 Logan
Logan
"You good, Mac?" Tuck asks, already in his gear, knee bouncing with pre-game energy.
"Yeah." I lie. "Just focused."
Coach walks through, tapping shoulders, murmuring individual instructions. When he reaches me, he pauses longer than usual.
"Clear head tonight, Logan. Keep it simple."
I nod, but I’m not even sure if I can do that.
My phone buzzes—a text from Reese wishing me luck.
I should feel comforted but I don’t. I haven't slept more than four solid hours at a time since missing that shot.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the puck sliding under my stick, hear eighteen thousand people groan in unison.
The buzzer sounds, calling us to the ice. I stand, legs heavy. Kovy bumps my shoulder as he passes.
"We got this."
I lead them out of the tunnel, stick tapping each teammate's pads as they file past me onto the ice. Another superstition. Another thing I can control when everything else feels like it's slipping through my fingers.
The first shift starts well enough. We win the opening face-off, cycle the puck deep. But when I get pinned against the boards, my pass attempt becomes a turnover. I watch, helpless, as the Avalanche transition up ice. The puck ends up behind our goalie twelve seconds later.
1-0.
"Shake it off," Benny says as we skate back to the bench. But it’s in my head even though I know I have to focus on the next play and not the last one. My legs feel disconnected from my body, my hands are a split-second too slow.
My next shift, I misread a pass from Kovy. The puck deflects off my skate and out of the zone, killing our offensive pressure. Back at the bench, Coach's eyes are hard, assessing.
"Keep it simple, Mac," he says, voice carefully neutral. But I hear what he doesn't say: Step the fuck up.
Second period, we're down 2-0 after another Colorado goal I wasn't on the ice for, small comfort.
I jump over the boards for a power play, our first real chance to get back in this.
The puck finds me at the point. I see Benny open for a one-timer, telegraph the pass, and watch as their penalty killer intercepts it.
He's off to the races, just me to beat. I lunge, desperate, hook his midsection as he blows past.
The ref's arm goes up. Penalty shot.
Our goalie somehow makes the save, but my relief is short-lived. I sit in the box, two minutes for hooking, watching as Colorado works the puck around our zone. They score with eight seconds left in my penalty.
3-0.
Back at the bench, Coach doesn't look at me. "Jonesy, take Mac's spot on the power play."
The message couldn't be clearer. I've been demoted mid-game. I stare at the players on the ice in front of me, my face feels hot.
Then the momentum changes. Kovy scores on a wicked wrister from the left circle. Two minutes later, Benny deflects a point shot past their goalie. The bench erupts, but I feel outside my body like I’m watching from the stands.
I keep my shifts short, afraid of making another mistake. The less I'm on the ice, the better our chances. It's a gut-wrenching realization. My teammates battle back while I watch, a passenger on the team I'm supposed to be leading.
Kovy ties it on a breakaway, his second of the night.
And with three minutes left in the third, Jonesy puts us ahead on a rebound no one saw coming.
Our goalie makes save after impossible save as the Avalanche press for the equalizer.
When the final horn sounds, we've won 4-3. Thank god for a hot goalie.
A comeback victory. On the road. The kind that can turn a series.
The locker room explodes in celebration.
Guys shout and laugh, tossing water bottles and slapping each other on the backs.
Our goalie gets a shower of Gatorade for his forty-save performance.
I sit in my stall, still in most of my gear, trying to find the right expression.
I should be relieved, grateful, energized.
Instead, I sit there like a statue while they celebrate.
Kovy gets the game puck. Benny gives an impromptu speech about resilience and belief. No one will quite meet my eyes—and they look away quickly when they do. They all know I was a liability tonight.
My phone buzzes with notifications. I make the mistake of looking.
"McCoy Benched in Crucial Moments of Game 4."
"Family Drama Taking Toll on Blades Star?"
"Leadership Questions Emerge as Blades Win in Spite of McCoy."
I shut it off, dropping it back into my stall. Reporters will be allowed in soon. I'll have to find words I don't feel, explanations I don't have.
"Mac." Sully's voice cuts through the noise. He stands next to my stall, expression grim. "Got a minute?"
I follow him into the hallway, away from the celebration. He leads me to a small office used by visiting coaches, closes the door behind us.
"You had a rough night," he says, voice gentle in a way that makes my stomach twist. "It happens to everyone, even the best."
"Team won. That's what matters." I say it because that’s what I’m supposed to say.
"Logan." He rarely uses my first name. "I need to show you something, and I need you to stay calm."
He hands me a manila envelope. My heart rate spikes as I open it, recognizing legal letterhead. Jessica's lawyer. As I scan the document, certain phrases leap out at me.
"Emergency custody motion..."
"Erratic behavior and public outbursts..."
"Violent incident with photographer..."
"Inappropriate relationship creating unstable environment..."
"Child's best interest requires immediate intervention..."
My vision blurs and the words swim on the page. "When did this come in?"
"Her lawyer filed it this afternoon. Right before game time." Sully's expression darkens. "We don’t think the timing is coincidental, Logan."
That bitch. She waited until right before a crucial playoff game to file this.
"She's using the camera incident," I say, voice hollow.
"And suggesting your relationship with Reese is creating an unstable environment for Tyler." Sully's hand finds my shoulder. "There's an emergency hearing scheduled for the same morning we'd travel to Denver for Game 6."
Of course.
"I can't miss a playoff game for a custody hearing." The words sound ridiculous even as I say them.
"That's exactly what she's counting on," Sully says quietly. "Miss the hearing, it looks like hockey means more than your son. Miss the game, you're letting your team down."
I sit down heavily on a folding chair, papers clutched in my hand. The victory noise from the locker room feels miles away now.
"Surgical," I finish for him. "She's cutting out my heart with perfect timing."
And the worst part is, I've helped her case. My performance tonight, my outburst with the photographer, my increasingly desperate attempts to balance a life that's spinning out of control—all of it plays into the narrative she's creating.
"What am I supposed to do?" The question isn't really for Sully. It's for the universe, for whatever cruel fate has decided to test my limits.
Sully squeezes my shoulder. "One step at a time. Get some rest. Tomorrow's another day."
But as I stare at the papers in my hand, I know something has to give. I can't keep failing at everything simultaneously. My team. My son. Something has to give.
Our plane lands at Midway and I drive to Reese's on auto-pilot considering my options to find a way out of this. Something has to give.
Option one: Skip the hearing for playoffs. Jessica wins emergency custody and uses my absence against me forever. Can't lose Tyler. Not an option.
Option two: Skip a playoff game for court. Let my team down when they need my veteran leadership most. I can’t do that to the boys or the fans. That would be career suicide. Not an option.
I turn onto Reese's street. I know what option three is. I've known since Sully handed me those papers.
I can't give up my son. I can't give up my career. That leaves the one thing I can control.
I park outside her building. Sit in the car for a full minute with the engine off. A few deep breaths. This is the right thing to do. It has to be. Tyler needs a father. The team needs a captain. And Reese... Reese needs someone who isn't falling apart.
I stand outside Reese's door holding my key to her apartment for two minutes before I let myself in. I can’t believe it’s come to this.
My suit feels like a costume now—a ridiculous outfit for a man playing at being a professional athlete, a father, a partner.
I'm failing at all three. I should leave.
Turn around and leave to spare her this, but I've never been a coward.
The door swings open. She’s been waiting for me. She’s in leggings and one of my old Blades t-shirts, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. Her smile vanishes the moment she sees my face.
"You won," she says, but it's without the usual excitement.
"Yes, the team won." My voice sounds strange, distant. "No thanks to me."
She reaches for me, but I step past her, needing space. The room feels too small, the walls closing in. I pull the papers from my inside pocket, set them on her coffee table without explanation.
"I've been watching," she says, gesturing at the muted TV where they're showing my turnovers, my penalty, my mistakes on endless loop. "It was just one bad game, Logan. It happens."
"It wasn't just a bad game." I loosen my tie, suddenly unable to breathe. "Jessica filed for emergency custody today. Right before the game."
Reese picks up the papers, scanning them quickly. Her face pales. "This is... this is insane. She's using the photographer incident? And saying I'm creating an unstable environment?"
"The timing was deliberate." I pace to her kitchen and back, unable to stay still.
"Cranking this up during the playoffs practically guarantees me being off my game, then use my performance as evidence I'm unstable. Schedule the hearing for a potential Game 6. Make me choose between my son and my team."
"We'll fight it," Reese says immediately, setting down the papers. "Your lawyer will destroy this motion. It's so transparent what Jessica's doing. Then we'll ask for a continuance. Explain the situation."
"And prove her point that hockey comes first?" I shake my head. "There's no winning here, Reese. She's got me cornered."
Reese approaches slowly. Her hand finds my arm. "You had a bad game, Logan. Your team still won."
"You don't get it." I pull away again. "It's not just tonight.
I'm failing at things I can’t fail at. I'm letting down my team when they need their leader most. I'm being painted as an unstable father who puts hockey and his girlfriend above his son.
And I'm dragging you into a nightmare you never signed up for. "
"I knew what I was signing up for," she insists, voice rising slightly. "I've never had any illusions about how complicated this would be."
"Did you sign up for losing your job? For being called a home-wrecker in the press? For being used as a weapon in a custody battle?"
Her silence is answer enough.
"I can't do this anymore," I say. "I can't be split in three directions, failing at everything."
"What are you saying?" She asks so quietly I can barely hear her.
"I'm saying something has to give." I force myself to meet her eyes, to watch the realization dawn. "I can't be the father Tyler needs, the captain this team deserves, and the man you should have. Not right now. Not all at once."
"Logan. Don't do this. We can find another way."
"There is no other way." I know I'm right and I hate it. "Tyler has to come first. The team has to come second. There's nothing left for you except disappointment and heartache."
"That's not your decision to make for me." Anger flashes through her grief. "I get to decide what I can handle."
"Look at me, Reese." I gesture to myself.
"I'm drowning. Tonight was just the beginning.
As long as we're together, Jessica will use you against me in the custody battle.
As long as the custody battle rages, I'll be useless to my team.
As long as I'm failing my team, I'll hate myself too much to be any good for you. "
"This is such bullshit, Logan. You're not being noble—you're being a coward.
You think pushing me away makes you a hero?
It makes you exactly like every other guy who ran when things got hard.
You're choosing to fail alone instead of succeeding together, and you're dressing it up as sacrifice.
Tyler doesn't need a martyr for a father.
He needs someone who shows him that love means staying when it's hard. "
"Please," she whispers. She takes two steps toward me and grabs my wrist. Hard. We both freeze. She lets go.
"When I was a kid," I say, barely able to get the words out, "my dad used to say you can have anything you want in this world, but not everything. I never understood what he meant until now."
Reese’s eyes are full of tears.
"Logan—you don’t have to do this. I love you. We can do this–together, remember?”
"Don't wait for me, Reese. Don't put your life on hold." I say with a voice that doesn’t even sound like mine.
"I made my choice. Tyler comes first. Always. Then the team. That's all I can manage right now."
She's watching me, crying without making a sound.
"I can't have all three," I say simply. "I'm sorry." And I turn to leave.