We stand there, me by the elevator, him by the couch. The distance feels deliberate, like we're both afraid to move.
"How was the meeting?" I finally ask.
He sits heavily on the couch, forearms on his knees. "Jessica brought a lawyer. Very official. Conference room at the team offices."
I move closer but stop at the armchair across from him. Not ready to sit beside him yet.
"Tell me."
"She tried to reach me." He stares at his hands. "Called the team office three times. Left messages with PR. Sent letters to the practice facility. Even tried DMing me on Instagram."
"And?"
"Nothing got through. PR admitted there were—" He makes air quotes. "'Gaps in protocols.' Corporate speak for someone fucked up. Or someone decided I didn't need to know."
"Why would they do that?"
Logan's laugh is bitter. "Three years ago, I was the golden boy bringing in jersey sales. Maybe they thought they were protecting the brand."
"But you gave her your number?"
"The team number. Standard operating procedure—never give out your personal cell." He rubs his face with both hands. "I was so fucking careful about protecting myself that I made it impossible for the mother of my child to tell me I had a son." The self-disgust in his voice is raw and ragged.
"Why did she come to the gala?"
"She said Tyler's getting older. Asking questions about his dad. They're struggling financially—she cut back work hours to be with him. Then she saw the announcement about my speech on responsibility." He looks up at me. "She said it felt hypocritical."
I study his face, looking for the tells I've learned. His jaw ticks. His fingers drum against his thigh. Everything about him radiates genuine anguish.
"She told me about him." His voice goes softer. "Said he has my eyes. That dimple I got from my mom. He's smart. Observant. And he loves hockey even though she never encouraged it."
"When's the paternity test?"
"Results by Wednesday. But I know he's mine. I saw him at the gala. That was my face at three years old."
"And after?"
"I’m going to meet him Thursday at the Children's Museum. Jessica thought neutral ground would be better."
"That sounds reasonable."
"Yeah." He's quiet for a moment. "Three years, Reese. First word, first steps, first day of preschool. Three birthdays. Just—gone."
The crack in his voice on 'gone' is what does it. This is a man genuinely mourning memories he'll never get back.
I move from the armchair to the couch, still keeping space between us but close enough that he knows I'm here.
"When I was sixteen, I saw my dad hit my mom," he says suddenly. "She'd disagreed with him about something at dinner. He backhanded her."
I stay quiet.
"I got between them. Told him if he ever touched her again, I'd kill him. I was bigger than him by then. It changed us." His hands clench. "He never did it again that I saw, but I started noticing things—how she'd go quiet when he raised his voice when he was drinking."
He looks at me, fear naked in his eyes. "What if that's in me too? What if Tyler sets me off and I?—"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
