Page 96 of Puck Fest
The team plays without me. I watch their third straight loss against Seattle from home. And I know I’m to blame.
I’m the reason we’re short a player. The reason the team’s distracted. The reason everything’s falling apart.
I turn off the game. Can’t watch anymore.
I'm halfway to the kitchen for another beer when there's a knock at my door.
I check the peephole.
Alex Naylor.
I open the door six inches and put my body in the gap. “How the fuck did you get my address?”
“Public records aren't that hard to find, Danny.” He smiles like we're old friends. “Can I come in? I'd rather not have this conversation in your hallway.”
“We're not having any conversation.”
“Five minutes. Then I leave.”
“No.”
“Riley Collins.”
I freeze.
Alex watches me freeze. His smile doesn't change.
“Five minutes,” he says again.
I step back and let him in.
He walks into my apartment like he's been there before, glancing at the framed jersey on the wall, the photos of my parents on the bookshelf. He doesn't sit. Neither do I.
“What about Riley Collins?” I say.
“I've been working this profile piece for three months. The whole arc - the assault, rehabilitation, redemption. Five thousand words, a Sunday feature placement.” He pulls a notebook from his jacket pocket but doesn't open it. “I've talkedto a lot of people on my way to getting this story, including a bartender at a hotel in Detroit who remembers your rookie defenseman drinking alone in the lobby for three hours and going up to his room with another guy. Not a teammate. Not a girl.”
My stomach drops.
“That's not a story,” I say.
“It is if I write it. I've got the bartender on tape. I've got hotel timestamps. I've got Riley's tell on his face every time someone mentions a girlfriend in the locker room…and yeah, I've been in your locker room enough times to see it.”
“You can't print that. You don't have anything.”
“I have enough. And here's the thing, Danny, I don't even need to say he's gay. I just need to say there are ‘questions’ about a young Raptors defenseman's personal life and let the internet do the rest. Within forty-eight hours every blog and podcast in hockey will be running with it. The kid'll be done. Nineteen years old. First NHL contract. Done.”
I take a step toward him.
Alex doesn't flinch. He's done this before.
“You touch me,” he says quietly, “and the story runs tomorrow with a quote about violent retaliation. You know the math, Danny. You can't win that fight.”
I stop.
“What do you want?”
“I want you on the record about you and Noah. Set the timeline straight, in your own words. Tell me what really happened with the kiss during probation, when things between you ended, when it started again, all of it. You give me the relationship story, I leave the kid alone. Nobody hears Riley Collins's name from me.”
