Page 19 of Puck Fest
“What I actually think is that I’d do it again if someone came after one of my teammates.”
“And that’s exactly what you can’t say to reporters.”
“Why not? It’s honest.”
“Because honest doesn’t always play well in the media. Honest gets twisted, taken out of context, used against you.” I pick up the next question. “Next one. ‘Some people are calling you a hero for defending your teammate. What do you say to that?’”
He’s quiet for a moment, obviously thinking.
“I’m not a hero. I’m just someone who gives a shit about the people I care about.”
“Can’t say ‘shit’ in an interview.”
“I’m not a hero. I’m just someone who cares about my teammates.”
“Better. But expand. Why do you care?”
“Because they’re family. Because when you spend that much time with people, they matter. Because...” He trails off, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Because that’s what you do. You protect the people you care about.”
There’s something raw in his voice when he says it. Something that makes me think this isn’t just about Tate or thePuck Festincident. This is deeper. Older. Maybe buried for a reason.
“That’s good,” I say with a nod. “That’s what they need to hear. The emotion, the sincerity. Not the corporate language.”
“So I should just be honest?”
“You should be honest about your feelings. Just not honest about your actions.” I check the next question. “This one’s harder. ‘Do you think the suspension was fair?’”
“No.”
“You can’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes you look like you don’t take responsibility for your actions.”
“I take responsibility. I just don’t think two games and twenty-five grand is proportional to stopping a drunk asshole from harassing someone.”
“And that’s the kind of statement that extends your suspension.” I set the paper down. “Here’s what you say: ‘I respect the league’s decision and I’m using this time to reflect on how I can handle similar situations better in the future.’”
“That’s not an answer.”
“That’s politics. Welcome to professional sports.”
He leans back, crosses his arms. His shirt stretches across his chest, and I catch myself from staring before he notices.
“Let me ask you something,” he says.
“This isn’t a two-way conversation.”
“Humor me. Do you think the suspension was fair?”
I look up, meet his eyes. They’re that unusual green-gray color. Right now, in the fluorescent conference room light, they’remore gray than green. Sparks flicker in the depths and I stare for a second too long before answering.
I clear my throat. “I think the suspension was inevitable. Whether it’s fair is irrelevant. What matters is how you respond to it.”
“That’s a politician’s answer.”
“I’m a PR director. Close enough.”
