"I mean it, Logan. I won't do this again. I can't. You’ve pushed me away for the last time."
"I understand." I reach for her hand, but stop myself, afraid to push too far too fast. "I'm not asking you to forget what I did—ever. I'm just asking for a chance to show you I've learned my lesson."
For a long moment, she stands perfectly still, her eyes searching mine. Then, so slightly I almost miss it, she nods and steps back, opening the door wider.
"Come in."
The two simple words feel like a gift. I step across the threshold, careful not to crowd her space, but she surprises me by closing the distance between us, her arms wrapping around me, her face pressing against my chest.
I freeze for a split second, then pull her close, burying my face in her hair and I breathe her in. God, I missed this, how perfectly we fit together, the way her head tucks just under my chin.
"I missed you," I whisper against her hair.
"I missed you too." Her words are muffled against my shirt. "Don't ever do that to me again you stupid jerk."
"Never," I promise, holding her tighter.
We stand like that for a long time, just breathing each other in, reconnecting without words.
Finally, she pulls back just enough to look up at me, her eyes red-rimmed but clear. "You have your hearing today, don't you?"
I nod, surprised she remembers. "In a few hours."
"Are you ready?"
"I think so." I brush a curl from her face, letting my palm linger against her cheek. "I know what I'm fighting for now."
She steps back, creating a small space between us. Not a rejection, just a reminder that we're not instantly fixed, that there's still work to do.
"I should go soon," I say reluctantly. "Need to shower, change before court."
"Logan?" She catches my hand as I turn toward the door, her touch gentle against my bruised knuckles. "Another chance?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with everything unsaid. I look at her—really look at her—and see the strength it took to open that door this morning, to hear me out, to let me back in even a little.
"I don't deserve it," I admit. "But I'm asking anyway."
She squeezes my hand once, then lets go. "Go," she says softly. "Do what you need to do. I'll be there tonight."
I nod, understanding what she's saying. Game 7. She'll be there. Not just for the team, not just for hockey, but for me—all of me. Somehow, that promise feels like more than enough to face whatever comes next.
The wooden chairs in the courtroom creak as I shift my weight. It’s hushed in here, like a church. I adjust the knot of my tie for the third time in five minutes, earning a gentle hand on my arm from Patricia. "Stop fidgeting," she whispers. "It makes you look nervous." She's right, of course, but knowing that doesn't still my leg bouncing under the table or ease the dryness in my throat. I am nervous. Across the aisle, Jessica sits beside her attorney, her posture perfect, expression carefully neutral and straight ahead.
Patricia slides a notepad between us. "Remember," she writes, "let me do the talking. Short answers if the judge addresses you directly. Stay calm." I nod, though staying calm feels impossible.
The bailiff calls the court to order as the judge enters, a stern-looking woman with silver-streaked hair and reading glassesperched on the end of her nose. Judge Wilson. Patricia has told me she's fair but no-nonsense, with little patience for using children as pawns in adult disputes.
"Case number 22-FC-4978, Stone versus McCoy," the clerk announces. "Emergency motion regarding custody modification."
Jessica's lawyer stands first—a polished woman in her fifties whose expensive suit and confident posture telegraph that she’s not cheap.
"Your Honor," she begins, "we've filed this emergency motion out of genuine concern for the minor child's well-being. Since being offered shared custody, Mr. McCoy has demonstrated a pattern of erratic behavior and poor judgment that creates an unstable environment."
My face feels hot as she continues, laying out her case like she's describing some stranger, not me.
"Mr. McCoy has engaged in a romantic relationship with a woman he's encouraged the child to become attached to, resulting in confusion about parental roles. The child has begun referring to this girlfriend as his 'bonus mommy'—language that undermines the child's understanding of family structure and creates unnecessary emotional complications."
Patricia's hand moves to my knee, applying gentle pressure as if to say "stay in your shoes." I take a deep breath through my nose.
