Chapter 27
Logan
The practice rink feels colder at five-thirty in the morning, no music, no voices, just the hum of refrigeration units and my skates cutting ice.
My blades crunch through the ice as I push off, the sound echoing in the space.
No coaches. No teammates. Just me and my thoughts, growing louder with each lap.
I've been coming here before dawn, trying to find a ritual that might fix what's broken. But my body's not responding—my crossovers are sloppy, my edges uncertain. I've had this muscle memory since I was a boy, but now it's just... gone
I dump out the pucks from the bucket on the bench, scattering near the blue line. Simple shooting drills. The kind I've done my whole life.
First shot: wide right.
Second: into the goalie's chest, if there were a goalie.
Third: I flex my stick too hard and it breaks.
"Fuck!" I scream into the empty building and my voice bounces back at me, multiplied and distorted. I take a deep breath, reset my stance, grab a new stick, and try again.
We're tied three games to three. Tomorrow is Game 7. At home. Winner goes to the Stanley Cup Finals. The boys carried us when I couldn't, and I'm—what? A ghost in a captain's jersey. A liability on skates
I fire another puck. This one catches the post with a metallic ping that vibrates through my teeth. Close, but still not good enough.
Another puck. Another post. The rubber disc skitters harmlessly into the corner.
"God damn it!" I slam my stick against the ice and I remind myself that I'm not actually a child although I feel like one.
I tell myself I have to finish on a high note—something I’ve insisted on since I was in the backyard on the outdoor rink. This one finds the top corner. A perfect shot. For half a second, I feel a flash of my old self—confident, precise, in control.
By the time I let myself get off the ice, my feet and hands are sore. I've missed more shots than I've made, cursed more than I've breathed, and accomplished exactly nothing. The sun is just up over the horizon as I walk out to my car.
When I walk into the building, the concierge hands me an envelope.
“Good morning, Mr. McCoy. A courier dropped this off a few minutes ago.”
“Thanks, Charles.”
It’s a legal-sized yellow envelope. Jessica's lawyer's firm embossed on the front. My stomach drops as I take it from him. It's heavy, formal, official. After I step into the elevator, I open it.
I scan the document, choice words leaping off the page.
"...reiterate our conditions for modified custody..."
"...no overnight visits with the minor child..."
"...supervised visitation only..."
"...absolutely no contact with Ms. Thompson..."
My hands start trembling when I see it—the paragraph that makes the hair stand up on my arms.
"Mr. McCoy has demonstrated a pattern of erratic behavior incompatible with healthy child-rearing, including physical altercations with media personnel and romantic entanglements that create an environment of instability, all of which compromise Tyler's developmental needs and emotional foundation. .."
The words blur. The pulse pounds in my ears. They're using everything—the incident with the photographer, my relationship with Reese, even my playoff performance—to paint me as unstable. Unfit. A father who doesn't deserve his son.
“Bullshit!” I hiss.
I read it again, hoping I've misunderstood, hoping there's some loophole, some compromise I can live with.
But the language is clear, the threat explicit.
If I want any chance of seeing my son, I need to accept these terms. No Reese.
No overnights. No normal father-son relationship.
Just scheduled visits, supervised like I'm dangerous, monitored like I can't be trusted.
I've been trying so hard—sacrificed everything—to be the father Tyler deserves. Pushed away the woman I love. Let my team down when they needed me most. And for what? To be treated like a threat? To have my son dangled in front of me to bait me into more mistakes?
I hurl the envelope across the room, watching it bounce off the wall. Not enough. Not nearly enough to express the rage churning inside me.
My fist finds the wall before I consciously decide to swing. The impact sends a shock up my arm, the drywall giving way with a sickening crunch. I pull back and hit it again, harder, feeling the skin on my knuckles split.
“Fuck you, Jessica!”
I didn’t feel the pain until now. I like it. Physical pain I understand. Physical pain makes sense in a way nothing else does right now. I pantomime hitting the wall a third time, leaving a smear of blood on the drywall.
I sink to the floor, cradling my throbbing fist against my chest. Blood drips between my fingers, bright red against my skin.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect. As if I wasn't enough of a mess, now I've damaged my hand just before one of the biggest games of my life.
I lean my head back against the wall. I don't know how to fix any of this. I don't know if it can be fixed. The custody battle, the playoffs, Reese—it's all fucked up, and I'm powerless to stop it.
I’m bleeding on my kitchen floor, alone with the consequences of choices I thought were right.
The concierge's call jolts me from a restless doze on the couch. I check my phone—8:45 PM. No texts, no missed calls to warn me. "Mr. McCoy, it’s Charles, Mr. Sullivan is on his way up. He says you were expecting him.” Before I can answer, I hear the elevator coming.
My swollen knuckles throb as I push myself up from the couch.
The elevator doors slide open, and Sully steps out, his eyes carefully taking in my disheveled appearance.
"Jesus Christ, Mac," he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "You look like absolute hell."
I pull my good fingers through my hair, suddenly conscious I look like shit. "Didn't know you were coming by."
"That was the point." The elevator closes behind him. He’s surveying my living room—the empty takeout containers, the pile of unwashed clothes, the whiskey bottle on the counter. His gaze lands on the hole in my wall, eyebrows lifting. "Redecorating?"
"Something like that."
Sully crosses to the kitchen, opening my fridge without asking. It's nearly empty—a six-pack of beer, some condiments, half a container of ancient Chinese food. “Breakfast of champions in here.” He says.
He grabs two beers, pops the caps, and hands me one.
"Game seven." He says it casually, but there's nothing casual about our situation. Tied 3-3 in the series, one loss from elimination. "Boys are ready. Good energy at practice today."
I take a long pull from the beer. "Yeah, I thought we looked good." The words sound hollow even to me.
"Schmitty's ankle is better. Kovy's wrist is holding up." Sully settles onto the arm of my couch, seemingly content with small talk. "We’re still not sure who to start in goal. They both look good."
"It should be Brewer," I say automatically. "He handles the puck better."
Sully nods, but he's watching me with that unsettling focus he gets sometimes—like he's seeing past all my bullshit. "Team misses their captain—their leader."
He sets his beer down on the coffee table, then walks over and picks up the legal envelope from the floor. I tense as he smooths it out, skimming the contents with his face carefully neutral.
I want to grab it from him, but I don't move. I just watch as his expression darkens, jaw tightening as he reaches the part about my "unstable lifestyle choices."
"This is bullshit," he says finally, refolding the paper with deliberate care.
"It's leverage," I correct him. "Jessica knows exactly what she's doing."
Sully sets the document on the table, eyes finding mine. "And what are you doing, Logan?"
The use of my first name catches me off guard. There's no warmth in the question, just a challenge.
"What I have to do," I answer, the words feeling rehearsed and empty. "I have to be a father to Tyler first."
"What about the rest of it?" His voice stays quiet, but there's an edge to it now. "By ending your first decent relationship? By being so distracted you’re hurting your team? By doing dumb shit like putting your fist through walls?"
"That’s not fair" I say, defensive heat rising in my chest. "Jessica is using Reese against me in the custody battle. I'm protecting her and Tyler."
"Bullshit."
"You didn't ask Reese what she wanted, did you? Didn't give her a choice. You just decided for her."
My jaw clenches. "You don't understand the situation."
"I understand exactly what's happening." He leans forward, eyes locked on mine. "You're scared. Not just of losing Tyler, but of having everything you never thought you deserved. A family. A partner who loves you despite all your flaws. A chance at something real."
"That's not—"
"You're becoming exactly what you feared," he cuts me off, his voice quiet but cutting. "A man who avoids and ignores his emotions instead of working through them—like your father. Running when things get hard. Choosing to numb yourself instead of facing reality."
“Fuck you, Sully.”
My father, who used alcohol to escape his responsibilities. Who I watched hit my mother in a drunken rage. Those memories haunt every relationship I've ever had.
"I'm nothing like him. He was selfish. I'm trying to protect people I care about."
"Are you?" Sully's eyes are unrelenting. "Or are you protecting yourself from having to do some scary shit like admitting that you need her?"
I stand abruptly, walking to the window. "You don't get it. Jessica is using my relationship against me. She's painting me as unstable, as a bad influence because of Reese. If I want any chance with Tyler—"
“Look” he says, “I raised two kids on my own while playing hockey. I know what it costs to keep a family together."
He stands, walks over next to me at the window. "Your old man chose the bottle over connection. You're choosing fear. Different poison, same result."
"I don't know how to fix this," I admit.