Perfect. Just fucking perfect. As if I wasn't enough of a mess, now I've damaged my hand just before one of the biggest games of my life.
I lean my head back against the wall. I don't know how to fix any of this. I don't know if it can be fixed. The custody battle, the playoffs, Reese—it's all fucked up, and I'm powerless to stop it.
I’m bleeding on my kitchen floor, alone with the consequences of choices I thought were right.
The concierge's call jolts me from a restless doze on the couch. I check my phone—8:45 PM. No texts, no missed calls to warn me. "Mr. McCoy, it’s Charles, Mr. Sullivan is on his way up. He says you were expecting him.” Before I can answer, I hear the elevator coming. My swollen knuckles throb as I push myself up from the couch. The elevator doors slide open, and Sully steps out, his eyes carefully taking in my disheveled appearance.
"Jesus Christ, Mac," he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "You look like absolute hell."
I pull my good fingers through my hair, suddenly conscious I look like shit. "Didn't know you were coming by."
"That was the point." The elevator closes behind him. He’s surveying my living room—the empty takeout containers, the pile of unwashed clothes, the whiskey bottle on the counter. His gaze lands on the hole in my wall, eyebrows lifting. "Redecorating?"
"Something like that."
Sully crosses to the kitchen, opening my fridge without asking. It's nearly empty—a six-pack of beer, some condiments, half a container of ancient Chinese food. “Breakfast of champions in here.” He says.
He grabs two beers, pops the caps, and hands me one.
"Game seven." He says it casually, but there's nothing casual about our situation. Tied 3-3 in the series, one loss from elimination. "Boys are ready. Good energy at practice today."
I take a long pull from the beer. "Yeah, I thought we looked good." The words sound hollow even to me.
"Schmitty's ankle is better. Kovy's wrist is holding up." Sully settles onto the arm of my couch, seemingly content with small talk. "We’re still not sure who to start in goal. They both look good."
"It should be Brewer," I say automatically. "He handles the puck better."
Sully nods, but he's watching me with that unsettling focus he gets sometimes—like he's seeing past all my bullshit. "Team misses their captain—their leader."
He sets his beer down on the coffee table, then walks over and picks up the legal envelope from the floor. I tense as he smooths it out, skimming the contents with his face carefully neutral.
I want to grab it from him, but I don't move. I just watch as his expression darkens, jaw tightening as he reaches the part about my "unstable lifestyle choices."
"This is bullshit," he says finally, refolding the paper with deliberate care.
"It's leverage," I correct him. "Jessica knows exactly what she's doing."
Sully sets the document on the table, eyes finding mine. "And what are you doing, Logan?"
The use of my first name catches me off guard. There's no warmth in the question, just a challenge.
"What I have to do," I answer, the words feeling rehearsed and empty. "I have to be a father to Tyler first."
"What about the rest of it?" His voice stays quiet, but there's an edge to it now. "By ending your first decent relationship? By being so distracted you’re hurting your team? By doing dumb shit like putting your fist through walls?"
"That’s not fair" I say, defensive heat rising in my chest. "Jessica is using Reese against me in the custody battle. I'm protecting her and Tyler."
"Bullshit."
"You didn't ask Reese what she wanted, did you? Didn't give her a choice. You just decided for her."
My jaw clenches. "You don't understand the situation."
"I understand exactly what's happening." He leans forward, eyes locked on mine. "You're scared. Not just of losing Tyler, but of having everything you never thought you deserved. A family. A partner who loves you despite all your flaws. A chance at something real."
"That's not?—"
"You're becoming exactly what you feared," he cuts me off, his voice quiet but cutting. "A man who avoids and ignores his emotions instead of working through them—like your father. Running when things get hard. Choosing to numb yourself instead of facing reality."
