On the bus ride back to the plane, Sully drops into the seat next to mine studying me with that non-judgy curiosity he's had since I was a rookie.
"That's six straight," he says, toasting me with his beer. "And you're playing out of your damn mind."
I shrug, uncomfortable with direct praise as always. "Team's clicking."
"Team's following your lead." He takes a sip. "I've known you twelve years, Mac. Never seen you play like this before. Not even during that conference final run."
My ice water is cold against my palm. I rotate the glass, watching condensation track down the side. "Feels different," I admit. "Game's... I don't know. Slower somehow? More space."
Sully nods like he expected this answer. "It's Tyler." It's not a question. "And Reese."
I meet his eyes, surprised at his directness. "Yeah, maybe."
"No maybe about it." He leans forward. "You know what I see? A man who's not searching anymore. Who knows exactly what he's playing for."
I think about Tyler's face on FaceTime before the game, about Reese's constant steady presence through all the custody chaos. About the sense of purpose that drives me now—so different from the empty pursuit of the next win, the next girl, the next contract that dominated my twenties.
"When my kid was born," Sully continues, "my game went to another level. Everyone thought it would be the opposite—less sleep, more distraction. But there's clarity that comes with knowing exactly why you're on that ice."
"Never thought I'd be a father." I smile slightly. "Definitely never thought I'd be fighting for custody of a three-year-old I just found out about less than a year ago."
"Life's funny that way. Gives you exactly what you need, exactly when you need it." He gestures with his glass. "Tyler. Reese. This team. It's all lining up, Mac."
"Think that we’ve got what it takes to make a deep run?" I ask quietly, giving voice to what we're both thinking.
"Why not? We've got the goaltending. We've got the depth. And we've got a captain playing the best hockey of his life." Sully's eyes are serious now. "Some guys play twenty years and never get the right combination of team and timing. You've got both right now. We're heading into playoffs with home ice, playing our best hockey."
I let his words sink in. Six straight wins. First place in the division. Tyler's love. Reese's steadiness. Playoffs start in a couple of days. The pieces are clicking together perfectly.
"It feels right," I admit. "All of it. For the first time, everything just feels... right."
Sully raises his glass. "To getting everything you didn't know you wanted."
I clink my glass against his. "And holding onto it with both hands."
Outside, as the plane taxis out to take off, snow has begun to fall, dusting the Boston night in white. Inside, I feel the certainty of a man who, at thirty-one, has finally found his center of gravity. On the ice. At home. Everywhere that matters.
Chapter 24
Reese
Iwatch Logan through the bathroom doorway, his movements precise and measured as steam fogs the mirror. The razor glides down his jaw carefully, his eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond the mirror. Even from here, I can feel it—that intensity that settles over him on game days, turning my playful boyfriend into someone I barely recognize.
It's fascinating, really. The transformation happens so clearly I can almost chart its progress: first the quieter breakfast, then the longer shower, and now this—the ritual shave, where each stroke seems to peel away another layer of Logan McCoy, the boyfriend, and reveal Logan McCoy, the captain.
Today, it's on another level because tonight is Game 1 of the Western Conference Finals—whatever that means for the weeks ahead. We're two series away from the Stanley Cup.
He rinses the blade with three quick taps against the sink—always three, never two or four. His shampoo, conditioner, and body wash bottles stand in a perfect line at the edge of the shower. He used his own products not trusting my fruity bargain-brand stuff for game day.
The tiles are cold beneath my bare feet as I pad into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over mychest. My old t-shirt barely covers the tops of my thighs. Logan's eyes flick to mine in the mirror, a brief acknowledgment before returning to the task at hand.
"Almost done?" I ask, though I know his routine by heart now. Shower. Shave. Moisturize. Dress in a specific order: underwear, socks (left first, then right), undershirt, dress shirt, pants. Tie knotted with the same number of adjustments. Jacket last.
"Five minutes," he says, voice distant yet soft, inhabiting that space between present and future. Between my apartment and the rink. Between the man and the player.
I retreat to the bedroom, straighten the sheets rumpled from our sleep. The suit he'll wear today hangs on the closet door—charcoal gray, crisp white shirt, blue tie with thin diagonal stripes. His “lucky” suit.
When he emerges, a towel wrapped around his waist and another draped over his shoulders, his hair is still damp, slicked back from his forehead. That thousand-yard stare is in full effect now, eyes focused on some point beyond my bedroom walls. Probably visualizing the game while he pulls on his boxers—the angles, the plays, the hit he wants to land on the guy who's been giving Benny trouble.
