Something shifts in Sully's expression—surprise, then something almost like approval. "Kindergarten teacher, huh? That's...different for you."
"Yeah, well." I fiddle with the tape on my stick. "She is different."
Sully studies me for a moment longer, then claps me on the shoulder. "Good. About damn time." He pushes off from the boards. "Keep that focus, whatever's causing it. Best you've looked all season."
As he walks away, I realize he's right. I do feel focused in a way I haven't in a long time. Hockey's always been my escape, my purpose, the one thing I could control when everything elsefelt chaotic. But lately, it's started to feel routine. Just another day at the office.
Today, though? Today it felt new again. Fresh. Like I was playing to show what I can do—what’s possible for me. I pretended Reese was watching me try out. How ridiculous is that? She's not even here, probably has no idea how I play, might not even care about hockey beyond the school program. Yet somehow, the mere thought of seeing her again has lit a fire under me that I thought had gone out.
I skate one last lap around the ice before heading to the locker room, already wondering when I'll see her again. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm actually looking forward to something that has nothing to do with hockey.
Later, I'm toweling off my hair when my phone buzzes in my locker. Three messages from Jen in PR, each more urgent than the last. I swipe open the final one: "WGN podcast wants you TODAY at 2. Please confirm ASAP. Important for community outreach." I groan. The last thing I want after practice is to sit in a stuffy studio talking about forechecks and power play strategies. But being captain means doing the media dance, especially when they slap "community outreach" on the request. I text back a thumbs-up emoji and Jen responds instantly with a string of exclamation points.
"What's got you looking like someone stole your favorite stick?" Kovy asks, peering over my shoulder.
"PR." I toss my phone back in my locker. "Podcast interview."
"Better you than me." He slaps my back with enough force to rock me forward. "Just don't forget to mention how amazing your teammates are."
I flip him off good-naturedly and finish getting dressed. My mind drifts back to Reese’s smile. I wonder if she'd listen to a hockey podcast. Probably not. She seemed to know who I was,but not in the obsessive way some women do—the ones who can recite my stats and know which brand of skates I use.
The drive to the WGN studio takes longer than expected, Chicago traffic grinding to a halt because of construction. I text Jen that I might be cutting it close, and she responds with an anxiety-inducing "DRIVE FASTER." Easy for her to say—she's not the one who'd get crucified in the press for a speeding ticket.
I make it with five minutes to spare, rushing into the building where a production assistant is already waiting to escort me upstairs. The studio is smaller than I expected, just a room with sound-dampening panels, a round table with microphones on it, and some WGN and Blades logos hanging behind us. The host, a long-time Blades reporter named Trent Wilson, jumps up when I enter. He's about my height but softer around the middle, with the overly enthusiastic handshake of someone trying to establish dominance.
"Logan! My man!" He pumps my hand like he's trying to draw water from a well. "Psyched to have you in the studio. Absolutely psyched."
"Thanks for having me," I say, the practiced response sliding out automatically.
"We're going to have a great chat. Hockey, playoffs, life as Chicago's most eligible bachelor." He winks. "The whole nine yards."
Great. One of those interviews. I take my seat across from him, adjusting the microphone while a tech hooks a small mic to my shirt. I've done enough of these to know the routine: start with hockey, ease into personal stuff, keep it light and funny, never say anything controversial. It's PR 101.
"We're live in thirty," the producer calls out, and Trent gives me a thumbs up.
"Just be yourself," he says. "The listeners love when players get real."
But they don't, not really. They love a carefully curated version of "real" that fits their expectations. For me, that's always been the charming playboy image—never serious about anything but hockey, always ready with a quip about the beautiful women of Chicago.
The red light blinks on, and Trent launches into his intro.
"What's up, Chicago? It's Trent Wilson with 'Blades Banter,' and today I've got a real treat for you. Sitting across from me is none other than Logan McCoy, captain of our Chicago Blades and the man leading the charge toward what we're all hoping is a deep playoff run. Logan, welcome to the show."
"Thanks for having me," I say again, settling into interview mode.
The first ten minutes are standard hockey talk—our recent winning streak, the upcoming road trip, how the rookies are developing. I give thoughtful but safe answers, the kind that sound good but don't actually reveal much. It's a dance I've perfected over the years.
Then Trent shifts gears, leaning in with a conspiratorial smile.
"So, Logan, you've been Chicago's most eligible hockey bachelor for what, five years now? Six? The ladies of Chicago want to know—is there any special woman who's finally managed to tie down the Blades' captain?"
I laugh, the sound practiced and hollow. "No, no. Still flying solo."
"Must be tough, fighting them off," Trent says with another wink. "I mean, come on, you're a good-looking guy, Stanley Cup champion, captain of an Original Six team... the women must be throwing themselves at you wherever you go. Any wild stories you can share with our listeners? Keep it PG-13, of course." He laughs at his own joke.
This is where I usually play along—make some self-deprecating comment, maybe hint at a wild night without details, keep the playboy myth alive. It's expected. It's easy. It's what I've done in every interview for years.
But today, the words stick in my throat. All I can think about is Reese's face when I gave her my jacket, what she might think if she hears me bragging about the reputation I earned as a bit of a playboy.
