Page 39 of Puck Fest
“They can wait a minute.” I step closer toward him. Something’s off. He’s more tense than usual, distracted in a way I haven’t seen before. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, Masterson. Just dealing with some work issues.”
“At ten o’clock on a game night?”
“PR doesn’t have office hours.” His phone buzzes again. He pulls it out, reads whatever message just came through, and his expression gets even more pinched. “I have to go.”
“Noah—”
“Have a good night. Try to stay out of trouble.”
He walks away before I can say anything else, and I’m left standing in the tunnel wondering what the hell just happened.
At the bar, a place called O’Reilly’s, the mood’s better than the locker room was. The guys loosen up, laughing about the bad plays instead of lamenting about them.
I’m nursing my second beer, half-listening to Jack’s story about something that happened in practice, when I feel it.
Someone’s eyes on me.
I turn, casually sipping my beer as my eyes dart left and right. They land on a guy in his forties wearing an Arizona jersey. And he’s drunk enough that he sways and loses his balance when he stands up from his table.
He’s staring right at me.
“Shit,” Carter mutters, saying exactly what my mind is yelling right now. “Here we go.”
The guy stumbles over, then stops about two feet away. He’s close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath and clothes.
“You’re Masterson, right?” He says, waving his glass in front of me.
“Yeah,” I say warily.
“The guy who beat up that fan. At the charity thing.” He grins like this is the funniest thing he’s ever said. “I read all about it. That guy probably got paid, huh? Your team’s-s loaded. Bet they s-settled for a fortune just to make it go away.”
I put my beer down. “You should head back to your table now.”
“Why? I’m just making conversation.” He sways closer. “You know, maybe I should piss-s you off too. Get myself a payday. S-seems like easy money.”
“Walk away,” Carter says, standing up. “Now.”
The guy ignores him and keeps his eyes on me. “What’s the matter? Big tough hockey player can’t handle a little trash talk?”
“I can handle it fine. Just giving you a chance to walk away before you do something stupid.”
“Something stupid?” He shoves my chest. Not hard, but enough that people around us notice. “Like this?”
I don’t move or react. I just stand there.
“Come on.” He shoves me again, harder. “Hit me. I could use the money.”
Little white lights appear in my periphery. Cameras are recording every bit of this bullshit. It’s about to be everywhere, and I have about ten seconds to decide how this all plays out.
I hear Noah’s voice in my head.
You should have de-escalated. Done anything other than put your hands on someone.
I take a breath and step back instead of forward.
“Not worth it.”
