"You're doing your best."
"My best has him crying into Jessica's couch because I’m not there."
"Logan—"
"I know. I just... I can score goals, I can win games, but I can't make my kid understand time zones."
She leans closer to the camera. "Remember what you told me about Tyler? That he's tough?"
"Yeah."
"He gets that from you. Both of you will figure this out."
The connection glitches again, her face pixelating. When it clears, she's lying down, phone above her, hair spread across her pillow.
"I should let you sleep," she says smiling while she caresses her belly, touching the top of her panties playfully. "Big game tomorrow."
“You’re teasing me!”
She smiles. “Maybe, a little. Trying to give you sweet dreams.”
"Can't sleep in hotels anymore. Too quiet. I think I need one of those noise machines."
“You look hot in that stolen shirt.”
"It’s borrowed," she corrects, pulling the collar up, inhaling. "God, that smells so good. I’m going to make you wear it again and I'm not giving it back."
"When I get home, you won't need it."
The screen freezes on her face, eyes dark, lips parted. By the time it unfreezes, she's saying goodnight.
The Crypto.com Arena thunders with eighteen thousand fans . During warm-ups, my old teammate, La Fleur, glides to the glass near the tunnel. His son presses his small palms against the plexiglass barrier. He strips his glove, places his hand against the boy's. The kid lights up.
I stretch along the boards, watching. La Fleur catches my eye as he pushes back toward center ice, gives me a nod. Just a nod, but I understand it completely. He texted me some words of encouragement after the news about Jessica and Tyler made the rounds.
The anthem begins. I stand at the blue line, hand over heart, spotting fathers and sons throughout the lower bowl, some in matching jerseys. The anthem ends, the crowd erupts, and I'm ready.
First period, we're cycling in their zone. I'm at the point when I see the opening—their defenseman cheating toward Benny. I slide down, find the soft space. Kovy's pass hits my tape perfectly. I redirect it high glove. The goal horn sounds.
1-0.
I point to the camera in the corner—I’m hoping Tyler will see it tomorrow—then skate past their bench. La Fleur makes eye contact again and gives me a little head nod—which an opponent never does. Recognition. I appreciate it.
Second period, Collins drives the net and Adams crushes him from the blind side. Elbow high, intent clear. Collins crumples.
My gloves hit the ice. I intercept Adams at center.
"You want someone your own size?"
Adams grins, showing that missing tooth. "Heard you went soft, McCoy. Daddy duty making you weak?"
The refs back off. We grab each other’s sweaters at the neck. Adams swings first, catches me in the ear. I respond a right cross that snaps his head back. We grapple. I land one more hard shot and his nose starts to bleed. The linesmen start to wrap us up, and I take one last swing and catch his helmet with my fist, opening a gash across my knuckles.
"Go fuck yourself, Adams, you piece of shit. Pick on someone your own size." I tell him as they pull us apart.
Five minutes in the box. My hand is bloodied and sore, but Collins is OK and the message was sent. Fuck with my boys, you answer to me. Worth it.
Third period, protecting a 2-1 lead. Tuck springs me with a stretch pass. Their defenseman has position, but I see Benny driving the far post. For a split second, I think about Tyler's lunch, about Jessica's tired voice?—
