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 thesame, 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.
