"They've been in there fifteen minutes already," he says. "Not sure how this is going to go."
"Great."
"I’ve got your back, Mac." His voice drops. "The boys are behind you."
It's a small comfort as I push open the conference room door to face the firing squad—the GM is at the head of the table, Coach is to his right, the PR Director is beside him, and two suits I recognize as legal counsel. Not exactly a welcome committee.
"Logan," the GM nods, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. "Have a seat."
I do, feeling like I'm sixteen again, called into the principal's office. The wall-mounted TV behind them plays muted footage of last night's incident on a continuous loop—me, face twisted with rage, hurling that camera. My son's terrified face. Over and over.
"Of course, you know why we’re here," he begins.
"Obviously."
He slides a folder across the polished table. "This organization has stood by you through a lot, Logan. The unexpected fatherhood situation. The public custody fiasco. We've been patient and supportive."
"I appreciate that."
"But last night crosses a line." His voice hardens. "You're the captain of this team. The face of this franchise. And that—" he jabs a finger toward the TV, "—is not what we expect from our leadership."
Coach Martinez hasn't spoken yet, but his eyes haven't left mine either. I can't read him—disappointment? Anger? Concern?
"I understand. I snapped. The photographer was harassing my family," I say, measuring each word carefully. "My three-year-old son was terrified."
"We understand the circumstances," PR cuts in. "But your response has created a significant situation." She opens anotherfolder, spreading printouts across the table. Headlines scream from each page:
MCCOY MELTDOWN: HOCKEY STAR ASSAULTS PHOTOGRAPHER
CAPTAIN CRUNCH: BLADES' LEADER LOSES CONTROL
CUSTODY BATTLE TURNS VIOLENT AS MCCOY ATTACKS PRESS
"The photographer is threatening to press charges," she continues. "We're already in contact with his representatives about a settlement."
"A settlement?" My voice rises despite my efforts to stay calm. "The guy stuck a camera in my kid's face after Reese asked him to back off."
"We're not here to debate what happened," Chandler says flatly. "We're here to address the aftermath. Your focus seems increasingly... divided, Logan. The team needs your full attention, especially heading into playoffs."
There it is—the ultimatum, veiled but unmistakable. Choose. Hockey or family drama. The team or the custody battle.
Coach Martinez finally speaks, his voice quieter than the others. "Logan, I've known you a long time. This isn't you."
"With all due respect, Coach, this is exactly me. I do the same thing for my team on the ice." I lean forward. "I'm a father protecting his family. I'm a man standing up for the woman he loves. If that's incompatible with wearing the 'C' on my chest, then?—"
"No one's talking about that, Logan," Chandler interrupts, though his tone suggests otherwise.
PR slides a prepared statement across the table. "We recommend you issue this apology immediately, followed by a brief media blackout. The focus should return to hockey, not your personal life."
I scan the neatly typed paragraphs—generic remorse for my "regrettable actions," commitment to "anger management resources," promises to "separate personal matters from professional obligations." Corporate bullshit that throws Reese under the bus and makes me sound like I'm choosing hockey over my family.
I push it back across the table. "No."
"No?" The GM's eyebrows shoot up.
"No," I repeat, stronger this time. "I won't issue that statement. I won't apologize for protecting my family. And I sure as hell won't pretend they don't exist to make the team's image more palatable."
The room goes silent. Coach Martinez's expression shifts slightly—is that the hint of a smile?
