I pick him up and carry him back to bed, tucking him in again.
"But you protected us." His eyes flutter open briefly, then close again. "Like a T-Rex daddy."
My throat tightens. "Go to sleep, T-Rex. I love you."
But he's already asleep, his breathing deep and steady. I stand watching him for a long moment before rejoining the others in the living room, where the TV is on, volume low.
"...hockey star Logan McCoy's very public meltdown outside Salvatore's restaurant tonight, where he was seen threatening photographers and destroying camera equipment..."
The footage is worse than I imagined. My face contorted with rage, veins bulging in my neck as I scream obscenities at the photographer. The camera catching Tyler's terrified face as Reese shields him. Me throwing the camera, the violent arc of it sailing through the air before shattering.
"Jesus," I mutter, sinking onto the couch.
"It's already trending," Elena says quietly, scrolling through her phone. "'Hockey Hothead Loses It' is the most common headline."
Nate turns up the volume slightly as the news anchor continues, "Sources close to Jessica Stone, mother of McCoy's three-year-old son, say this incident demonstrates exactly the concerns raised in recent custody filings about the child's wellbeing..."
"Turn it off," Reese says softly, and Nate immediately hits mute.
I drop my head into my hands. "I played right into their hands. Into Jessica's hands."
Reese sits beside me, her hand finding mine. "You were protecting your family."
"No, I made it worse." I look up at the frozen image on the screen—my son's face, tear-streaked and frightened. "I scared him worse than they did."
My phone buzzes. The team's GM. Of course. The damage control machine is already spinning up. Tomorrow there will be meetings, statements, maybe even fines.
But tonight, all I can think about is Tyler's tiny voice: You protected us. Like a T-Rex daddy.
Some protection. All I did was give Jessica more ammunition and traumatize my kid in the process.
"They're going to use this against us in court," I say, staring at the silent TV where social media reactions now scroll across the bottom of the screen. "Jessica's lawyers are probably drafting new motions right now."
"Then we'll fight them," Reese says with quiet determination. "Together."
I want to believe her, but as I look at the images cycling on the screen—Tyler's frightened face prominently featured in most—I've never felt less like a protector in my life.
The next morning my phone buzzes on the nightstand at 6:42, pulling me from a fitful sleep. One eye open, I read the GM's text: "Conference room. 8 AM. Full management team." No "good morning," no cushioning, just seven words that might as well say "career execution: 8 AM sharp." Beside me, Reese stirs but doesn't wake. I slip out of bed, careful not to disturb her. Let her sleep—at least one of us should.
I stand under the shower too long, letting scalding water pound my shoulders while rehearsing explanations, apologies, defenses—none of which sound convincing even to me. The mirror shows dark circles under my eyes, a tight line where my mouth should be. Captain material, for sure.
Tyler's still sleeping when I peek into his room. The nightlight casts strange shadows across his peaceful face. Last night feels like a nightmare, but the bruises on my knuckles from where I hit the car door after the restaurant prove it wasn't. I close his door silently, a hollow ache spreading beneath my ribs.
In the kitchen, I scribble a note for Reese:Meeting with team brass. Back ASAP. Love you.Then, almost as an afterthought:No regrets.
The drive to the facility only takes fifteen minutes. I turn off sports radio after the first mention of my name, opting instead for silence. The building looms gray against the winter sky, familiar yet suddenly foreign. I've walked through these doors thousands of times—as a rookie fighting for a spot, as an alternate captain proving my worth, as team captain leading through slumps and streaks. Never like this, though. Never with the weight of so much more than hockey on my shoulders.
In the players' lot Schmitty pulls in beside me. Probably here early for some treatment. He climbs out, coffee in hand, and gives me a nod.
"For what it's worth, I'd have done the same thing." He shrugs. "Guy was in your kid's face."
I nod, grateful but unable to find words.
Inside, a few of the rehabbing players are here early getting in some work, they eye me cautiously, like I might explode again. Tuck breaks the tension, slapping my shoulder as he passes. "Nice form on that throw, Mac. Next time aim for his nuts."
A surprised laugh escapes me. "Good call! Thanks for the idea."
The walk upstairs to the executive floor is excruciating. When I hit the top step, I find Sully waiting in the hallway, arms crossed.
