Chapter 28 #2
Patricia rises when Jessica's lawyer finishes, her voice calm and measured as she outlines our response—arguing that the incident was isolated, that my relationship with Reese, who is a highly-rated kindergarten teacher, provides stability rather than chaos and that Tyler is thriving in our care.
She's good, really good, but I can tell from the judge's expression that something isn't landing.
"Your Honor," Patricia concludes, "this motion is less about genuine concern for the child and more about Ms. Stone using the court to control Mr. McCoy's personal life."
The judge removes her glasses, looking directly at me. "Mr. McCoy, I'd like to hear from you directly. How do you respond to these concerns about instability in your home?"
Patricia hadn't prepared me for this. She looks slightly alarmed but nods for me to stand.
I stand on legs that feel like I’ve been in the gym squatting 300 pounds. "Thank you, Your Honor." My voice comes out steadier than I expected. "I want to start by saying that Tyler is the most important person in my life. Everything I do, every decision I make, is with his well-being in mind."
The judge nods slightly, encouraging me to continue.
"I won't stand here and say I've done everything right. I haven't. That night with the photographers—I reacted out of instinct when someone shoved a camera in my son's face after he was clearly scared. It wasn't the right way to handle it, but it came from a place of protection, not aggression."
I take a breath, finding my rhythm. "But the bigger issue here isn't about one incident. It's about me trying to live my life in separate compartments—being one version of myself with Tyler, another version on the ice, another with Reese. I thought that's what I had to do to meet everyone's needs."
The judge is watching me intently, and I feel a strange certainty that this moment—this complete honesty—is what the whole mess has been leading toward.
"I've realized that approach is what's actually causing instability. Tyler doesn't need a part-time dad who shows up as different versions of himself. He needs me whole—the same person at home, on the ice, everywhere. And yes, Reese is part of that wholeness."
I glance across at Jessica, whose expression has shifted from neutral to something I can’t read.
"Tyler calls her 'bonus mommy' because that's how he sees her—as someone who gives him extra love, not someone who replaces or diminishes his mother's role. Reese makes me better. As you heard, she’s a kindergarten teacher.
She is absolutely incredible with Tyler.
She knows how to talk to him, how to listen to him. How to help me be a better father."
The courtroom is silent when I finish. I realize I've said more than Patricia advised, but I told the whole truth. For the first time in months, I feel completely aligned with my own words.
The judge turns to Jessica's lawyer. "Counsel, I'm struggling to understand how a stable, loving relationship in Mr. McCoy's life would be detrimental to the child. Can you elaborate?"
Jessica's lawyer shifts uncomfortably. "Your Honor, our concern is primarily about the confusion of parental roles and potential developmental impacts when—"
"Developmental impacts?" the judge interrupts. "Do you have an expert witness prepared to testify about these alleged impacts?"
"We could certainly arrange for an evaluation, Your Honor."
The judge's eyebrows rise. "So you don't have any evidence that this relationship is actually harmful to the child? Just speculation?"
I watch Jessica's face as the judge speaks.
I can see her jaw tensing and releasing.
She looks at her lawyer, then down at her hands folded on the table.
When she looks up, she's staring at me—really looking at me. I think it’s the first time since I walked in.
Her expression isn't soft, but it's...thoughtful.
Like she's actually seeing me instead of the idea of me she came in with.
While her lawyer struggles to respond, Jessica leans forward and whispers something. Her lawyer looks surprised, then whispers back, though still inaudible.
Finally, her lawyer says. "Your Honor..."
The judge nods, looking slightly surprised.
“We’d like to withdraw the emergency custody request." She glances at me briefly, then away. "My client would like to try mediation first. To establish clearer boundaries and expectations for Tyler's sake."
Patricia's hand finds my arm, squeezing in disbelief. The judge studies Jessica for a moment, then nods.
"Very well, Ms. Stone. The emergency motion is withdrawn. I strongly encourage both parties to work with a family mediator to resolve these issues in the best interest of your child." She makes a notation on her papers. "Court is adjourned."
The formality dissolves as people rise, gathering papers and whispering. I stand frozen, unable to process what just happened until Patricia nudges me.
"That's a win, Logan," she says quietly. "A big one."
I nod, watching as Jessica exchanges a few words with her lawyer before walking directly toward me. Patricia moves as if to intercept, but I shake my head slightly. This is between me and Jessica.
We step into the hallway, finding a quiet corner away from the other people exiting the courtroom.
"Why?" I ask simply.
Jessica straightens her blazer, not quite meeting my eyes. "Tyler's been asking for you both. Every day. 'When can I see Daddy and Reese?' Over and over."
I wait, sensing there's more.
"And," she continues, her voice lower, "what you said in there—about being whole instead of compartmentalizing—it makes sense. I’ve never been against you, Logan. I want you to be a great dad for Tyler. I was just genuinely worried you couldn’t be.”
I'm careful to keep my face neutral, not wanting to say anything that might change her mind.
"Don't make me regret this," she says, finally looking directly at me. "If you and Reese are serious, if you're in this for the long haul, then...fine. But if this is just another relationship that's going to implode and hurt my son in the process—"
"It's not," I say with quiet certainty. "We're not."
She studies me for a long moment, then nods once.
"Thank you, Jessica."
She nods again, then turns and walks away, her heels clicking sharply on the marble floor.
I stand in the empty hallway, feeling lighter than I have in months. Not because everything is fixed—there's still mediation ahead, still boundaries to establish, still trust to rebuild—but because for the first time, I can see a path forward where I don't have to choose between the people I love.
Game 7 awaits tonight and I can’t wait to tell Reese what just happened.
Later that night, the arena pulses with Game 7 energy—you can feel it the moment you walk through the players' entrance.
Every face is a little more serious, every voice a little quieter, the usual pre-game banter replaced with purposeful focus.
I check my phone one more time before stashing it in my locker, sending Reese a quick text: Everything went well.
Better than expected. Will tell you details later.
Jessica withdrew the motion. Going to be okay.
The locker room is only half-full, guys in various stages of preparation. Kovy looks up from taping his stick, his eyebrows rising slightly when he sees me.
"Mac," he says, a question embedded in the single syllable of my nickname.
"Hey," I reply, dropping my bag at my stall.
Kovy stops mid-tape job, looking up at me with new attention.
"You good?" he asks, the question carrying more weight than its simplicity suggests.
I meet his eyes and nod, a genuine smile forming without effort. "Yeah. I'm good."
He holds my gaze for a moment, then breaks into a slow grin of his own. "Good," he says, returning to his stick. "That's good."
More players filter in, each with their own reaction to whatever they're seeing in me.
Schmitty does a double-take mid-conversation with the equipment manager.
Tuck punches my shoulder as he passes, harder than usual, like he's testing if I'm really there.
Benny just nods, a look of quiet approval crossing his face.
I move through my pre-game routine with a fluid ease that's been missing for weeks. Compression shorts, left shin pad before right, clockwise tape job on the stick. The rituals are the same, but the energy behind them has transformed—not frantic superstition but centered focus.
Coach strides in then, clipboard in hand, expression serious but composed. His eyes find mine across the room. He gives me a short nod before addressing the room.
"Alright, boys. Game 7. Lose and the season is over.
Win and we play for the cup. Everything we've worked for comes down to this game.
" His voice carries without shouting, commanding the attention of every player.
"We know what they bring. We know what we have. Time to show which team wants it more."
After he’s done pumping us up, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Sully gestures toward the hallway with a slight tilt of his head. I follow him out, away from the gradually building noise of the locker room.
"Just wanted a word before things get crazy," he says, leading me to a quiet alcove near the training room.
I wait, expecting some last-minute tactical advice or veteran wisdom about Game 7 pressure.
Instead, he simply looks at me, and says, "You look like yourself again," he says finally.
"I am," I reply. "Finally."
He nods, satisfaction evident in the set of his shoulders. "What changed?"
"You were right," I admit. "About everything. I was scared. Running. Trying to be three different people instead of one whole person."
"And now?"
"Now I know what I'm playing for." I glance toward the locker room, then back to him. "Who I'm playing for. All of it, together."
Sully's mouth curves into a slight smile. "Talked to Reese?"
"This morning." I don't elaborate, don't need to.
He seems to understand, clapping my shoulder once. "Good. That's good, Mac."
We file toward the tunnel for warmups. I take my place at the front of the line, as always.
The noise as the boys step on the ice is incredible—eighteen thousand voices rising in a wall of sound that vibrates through the concrete beneath our feet.
I tap each teammate on the pads as they exit, a ritual I've performed hundreds of times, but tonight each touch feels more connected, more meaningful.
When my turn comes, I step onto the ice and the familiar sensation of skates cutting into the fresh surface centers me instantly.
The chill rises from below, clearing my head, sharpening my senses.
I push off, gaining speed with each stride, feeling the power in my legs, the precision in my edges. I’m back.
I circle the net, tap the posts four times—another superstition that now feels less like desperate insurance and more like respectful tradition. My body knows what to do. Has always known. I was just getting in my own way.
Then I spot her in the crowd—Reese, in her usual seat, wearing my jersey. Our eyes meet briefly.
Later, when we're lining up for the national anthem, I take my place at the blue line and feel a calm I haven't experienced in months, maybe years. The pressure is still there—the importance of this game, what it means for my career, for the team, for the city. And I love it.
The anthem ends. The crowd roars. The puck is about to drop on Game 7.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm completely ready.