The memory surfaces—me, scribbling the team office number on a hotel notepad. Standard procedure. Protect the personal line. Keep control.
"What changed?" I ask. "Why the gala?"
Jessica's eyes flicker with something—hesitation, maybe guilt. "Tyler's getting older. Asking questions. We're struggling financially. I've been working reduced hours so I can be with him more, which means less income." She swallows. "And then I saw the announcement about you speaking at the gala about responsibility and mentorship. It felt... wrong. Hypocritical."
"So you decided to ambush me?" The words come out sharper than intended.
"I decided my son deserves to know his father. And yes, I wanted you to face what you've been missing." Her voice doesn't waver. "Three years of his life. First steps. First words. First everything."
Each milestone hits like a slap. Things I can never get back. Moments forever lost.
"I would have been there." My voice drops. "If I had known, I would have been there."
"Would you have?" She studies me, searching for truth. "The famous Logan McCoy, changing diapers and walking a colicky baby at 3 a.m.? Giving up your—your 'playboy lifestyle'?"
I grip the edge of the table. "You didn't give me a chance."
"And I regret that now," she says, softening slightly. "Tyler needs his father. I see that more clearly every day."
The lawyer speaks up. "My client is prepared to establish a custody arrangement that works for all parties, contingent on paternity confirmation. We're also seeking appropriate child support, retroactive to Tyler's birth."
The words "child support" hang in the air like something solid. Something that can be measured, calculated, paid. But how do you calculate three years of absence? How do you pay back lost time?
"When can I meet him?" The question pushes past everything else.
Jessica looks surprised. "You want to meet him? Right away?"
"Yes." The certainty in my voice startles even me. "If he's mine—and we'll know soon enough—then I want to be in his life. Real involvement, not just checks."
She hesitates. "We need to do this carefully. He doesn't understand what's happening. He just knows I'm meeting his dad today."
Dad. The word makes my stomach drop.
"We'll need to develop a transition plan," her lawyer says. "Supervised visits initially, gradually increasing as Tyler becomes comfortable."
I nod, trying to look like a man who knows what he's doing instead of someone whose world has been completely upended. "Whatever's best for him."
The meeting drags into a second hour. I initial page six, where the paternity test procedure is outlined. My pen hovers over paragraph nine—something about retroactive financial support that makes my agent shift in his seat. I shake my head at him and sign anyway. When the PR director suggests a joint statement, I lean forward. "No. Tyler stays out of the press." Jessica's eyes flick up at that, meeting mine for the first time in twenty minutes. The wariness in them softens, just barely, at the edges. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, studying my face like she's memorizing it to describe to someone later.
When we finally stand to leave, the lawyers exchange handshakes and business cards. I find myself facing Jessica alone for a brief moment.
"He has your eyes," she says quietly. "And that little dimple when he smiles." Her own smile flickers briefly. "He's smart. Observant. Loves hockey already, though I didn't encourage it."
Something warm and terrifying spreads in my chest. Pride? Fear? Both?
"I'm sorry," she adds, surprising me. "Not for bringing him to the gala—he deserves to know you. But for how it happened. It was... messy."
"Yeah." I manage a dry laugh. "That's one word for it."
She holds my gaze. "I didn't do this for drama or money. I did it because he asks about his daddy. Because he deserves better than my made-up stories."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Thursday," she says. "After the results we'll set up a meeting. Maybe at his favorite place, the Children’s Museum. Neutral ground for him."
"Thursday," I repeat. Three days. Three days until I meet my son.
As she turns to leave, I blurt out: "What does he like? Books, toys... what should I bring?"
