We finish up with a cool-down session, focusing on puck control and simple passing drills. I push myself to stay sharp and focused after getting called out by coach for my daydreaming.
In the locker room, the conversation turns to the usual post-practice topics: who's injured but hiding it, which referee screwed us last game, and inevitably, women.
"I feel like married people have it made," Schmidty says, peeling off his practice jersey. He's twenty-five, recently engaged, and suddenly an expert on commitment. "No more games, man. Come home to the same person every night. It's fucking awesome."
"‘Awesome’ sounds boring as shit," Jenkins counters. "Mac gets it. Why settle for one flavor for the rest of your life when you can sample the whole ice cream shop whenever you feel like it? Cookies and cream one night and a little rocky road now and then?" He says, gyrating his hips and making an O-face.
The guys are giggling at his pantomime and turn to me, waiting for my veteran wisdom on the eternal bachelor versus married man debate. I force a grin, playing my role.
"Way I see it, marriage is like a power play. Everybody wants it, but even the best power play in the league fails more often than it succeeds."
They laugh, clearly amused. It’s just another day with Logan McCoy—the guy who treats commitment like a hot potato and spends more time with cocktail waitresses than he does with women who can hold a decent conversation.
I don't tell them that lately I've been wondering what it would be like to come home to someone who knows me—not the hockey player, not the Chicago Blades captain, but me. Someone who'd still be there when the spotlight moves on to the nextyoung star, when my knees can't take the punishment anymore, when the only ice in my life is floating in a whiskey glass.
Coach blows his whistle and calls us to center ice. “Alright, that’s a wrap! Nice work out there today fellas. He rubs Rosey’s helmet playfully pushing his head down a bit before heading toward his office. The guys follow, leaving hard-earned sweat in their wake..
I glide toward the exit, suddenly struck by the hollow feeling in my chest that has nothing to do with exertion. Twelve years I've been chasing pucks and women with equal determination. One pursuit has brought me a captain's C and the respect of everyone in hockey. The other has brought me... what, exactly?
As I step off the ice, I glance toward the locker room, suddenly restless in a way that no amount of physical exhaustion can cure. Something's gotta change. I just don't know what.
The training room hums with the quiet efficiency of people who make broken bodies functional again. I ease onto the massage table, wincing as my right knee protests the morning's workout. Twelve years of hits, blocks, and falls have left their mark—invisible to fans but catalogued in sharp detail by my nervous system. I close my eyes as one of the trainers digs skilled thumbs into my quadriceps, finding knots I didn't even know were there.
"Jesus, Mac. Your muscles are like concrete today," Dave says, increasing the pressure until I have to bite back a groan. "Something bothering you?"
"Just the usual and Jenkins' terrible jokes."
Dave laughs, and says, “Yeah, Jenkins’ jokes are a danger to everyone.”
"Ice bath after this," he suggests. "Ten minutes should do it."
I grunt in agreement. The door swings open, and I don't need to look to know who it is. Matthew Sullivan's presence fills a room before he says a word—a skill I've tried to learn from himsince I was eighteen and terrified of saying the wrong thing to my childhood hero.
"There he is, Chicago's most eligible defenseman," Sully says, his voice carrying the gravel of too many nights out with the boys and not enough rest in his playing days. At forty-nine, he's still built like the power forward he used to be, though his dark hair has gone silver at the temples. "Hiding from Martinez?"
"Strategic retreat," I correct him, hissing as Dave finds a particularly tender spot. "Coach thinks I wasn't focused today."
"Were you?"
I crack open one eye to find Sully watching me with that penetrating look that made him such an effective captain during his playing days. Even now, as a special advisor to the team, he has a way of seeing through the bullshit we all carry around.
"Not really," I admit.
Sully nods to Dave. "Give us a minute?"
Dave finishes working on my quad and steps back. "He's all yours. But he still needs that ice bath after."
"I'll make sure he gets in," Sully promises.
Once we're alone, Sully settles into a chair beside the massage table. The training room is where a lot of heart-to-heart conversations happen organically. Everything is slower in here, the distant sounds of the rink being resurfaced, the equipment buzzing, it somehow encourages you to be thoughtful and occasionally spill your guts.
"What's eating you, kid?" he asks, though I haven't been a kid to anyone but him in a long time.
I stare at the ceiling, counting the tiles rather than meeting his eyes. "You ever feel like you're playing a part in your own life? Like everyone's got this idea of who Logan McCoy is, and you just... go along with it?"
"Only every day of my career," he says with a soft laugh. "Part of the job description."
"Yeah, but..." I struggle to articulate what’s been growing inside me. "The guys were talking about the marriage and commitment thing today. Same old shit, you know? And I said what I always say, made the joke everyone expected. But it felt wrong."
