First shot: wide right.
Second: into the goalie's chest, if there were a goalie.
Third: I flex my stick too hard and it breaks.
"Fuck!" I scream into the empty building and my voice bounces back at me, multiplied and distorted. I take a deep breath, reset my stance, grab a new stick, and try again.
We're tied three games to three. Tomorrow is Game 7. At home. Winner goes to the Stanley Cup Finals. The boys carriedus when I couldn't, and I'm—what? A ghost in a captain's jersey. A liability on skates
I fire another puck. This one catches the post with a metallic ping that vibrates through my teeth. Close, but still not good enough.
Another puck. Another post. The rubber disc skitters harmlessly into the corner.
"God damn it!" I slam my stick against the ice and I remind myself that I'm not actually a child although I feel like one.
I tell myself I have to finish on a high note—something I’ve insisted on since I was in the backyard on the outdoor rink. This one finds the top corner. A perfect shot. For half a second, I feel a flash of my old self—confident, precise, in control.
By the time I let myself get off the ice, my feet and hands are sore. I've missed more shots than I've made, cursed more than I've breathed, and accomplished exactly nothing. The sun is just up over the horizon as I walk out to my car.
When I walk into the building, the concierge hands me an envelope.
“Good morning, Mr. McCoy. A courier dropped this off a few minutes ago.”
“Thanks, Charles.”
It’s a legal-sized yellow envelope. Jessica's lawyer's firm embossed on the front. My stomach drops as I take it from him. It's heavy, formal, official. After I step into the elevator, I open it.
I scan the document, choice words leaping off the page.
"...reiterate our conditions for modified custody..."
"...no overnight visits with the minor child..."
"...supervised visitation only..."
"...absolutely no contact with Ms. Thompson..."
My hands start trembling when I see it—the paragraph that makes the hair stand up on my arms.
"Mr. McCoy has demonstrated a pattern of erratic behavior incompatible with healthy child-rearing, including physical altercations with media personnel and romantic entanglements that create an environment of instability, all of which compromise Tyler's developmental needs and emotional foundation..."
The words blur. The pulse pounds in my ears. They're using everything—the incident with the photographer, my relationship with Reese, even my playoff performance—to paint me as unstable. Unfit. A father who doesn't deserve his son.
“Bullshit!” I hiss.
I read it again, hoping I've misunderstood, hoping there's some loophole, some compromise I can live with. But the language is clear, the threat explicit. If I want any chance of seeing my son, I need to accept these terms. No Reese. No overnights. No normal father-son relationship. Just scheduled visits, supervised like I'm dangerous, monitored like I can't be trusted.
I've been trying so hard—sacrificed everything—to be the father Tyler deserves. Pushed away the woman I love. Let my team down when they needed me most. And for what? To be treated like a threat? To have my son dangled in front of me to bait me into more mistakes?
I hurl the envelope across the room, watching it bounce off the wall. Not enough. Not nearly enough to express the rage churning inside me.
My fist finds the wall before I consciously decide to swing. The impact sends a shock up my arm, the drywall giving way with a sickening crunch. I pull back and hit it again, harder, feeling the skin on my knuckles split.
“Fuck you, Jessica!”
I didn’t feel the pain until now. I like it. Physical pain I understand. Physical pain makes sense in a way nothing elsedoes right now. I pantomime hitting the wall a third time, leaving a smear of blood on the drywall.
I sink to the floor, cradling my throbbing fist against my chest. Blood drips between my fingers, bright red against my skin.
