Page 12 of Puck Fest
“Not today. We haven’t gotten word that the attendee is filing charges for assault. But that’s always a possibility and we’ll handle it if it happens.” I sit down across from him and pull out my tablet. “The suspension starts immediately. You’ll miss Friday against Seattle and Sunday against Vancouver. You’re back the following Tuesday against Colorado.”
“Two games. That’s it?”
“That’s it. The league took into account that the fan shoved you first and that you were responding to hate speech. They also noted you don’t have a history of assaulting people.”
“I’ve been fined three times and suspended once.”
“For fighting during games. That’s different.” I pull up my notes. “The community service focuses on anti-bullying programs and LGBTQ+ youth groups. We’re positioning you as someone who cares about these issues but made a mistake in judgment.”
“Because I do care about these issues.”
“Then show it. Do the work, and maybe people will see you as something other than a violent thug.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not a thug.”
“I know. But that’s what the video shows. That’s what we’re fixing.”
He’s quiet for a minute, watching me with that intense stare that makes me want to shift in my seat. It’s unsettling, the way he looks at people. Like he’s figuring them out, filing details away.
“Why do you care?” he asks.
“Because it’s my job.”
“Is it? Or is it because you actually think I’m not a bad guy?”
I think about the video I’ve watched probably fifty times now. The way he moved without hesitation to put himself between the fan and Tate. Pure instinct. No thought about consequences or cameras or his career.
“I think you made a choice yesterday,” I say. “A choice most people wouldn’t make. Whether that makes you brave or reckless is still up for debate.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
He leans back in his chair, and I notice the way his shoulders fill out his t-shirt. He’s bigger than he looks on camera. More solid. The kind of build that comes from years of professional hockey and genetics that aren’t fair to the rest of us.
“How long have you worked in PR?” he asks.
“Six years. Chicago sports management firm before this.”
“And you came here because...?”
“Because it was a good opportunity.”
“Because your dad’s the coach.”
The words land exactly where he probably intended. I place my tablet on the table and meet his eyes.
“Because Bob Marshall offered me a job that fit my career goals,” I say, keeping my voice even. “The fact that my father happens to coach here is something I thought about before saying yes. I know how it looks. I also know I’m qualified for this job regardless of my last name.”
“Touchy subject?”
“Realistic concern.” I pick up my tablet again. “I spent six years building my reputation in Chicago specifically so when I took a role like this, no one could say I didn’t earn it. The optics of working with my father are complicated. They don’t change the fact that I’m damn good at what I do.”
He shrugs. “Never said you weren’t.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied it looks convenient. Which it does.” He grins, and something about that smile does things to my pulse that are completely inappropriate. And very inconvenient. “Doesn’t mean you’re not good at your job. Just means people are going to talk.”
