Page 3 of Puck Fest
Noah Enver sets his tablet on the conference table, pulls out achair, and sits down across from me. Up close, he’s even more put-together. Sharp jaw with dark eyes, calm and cold.
“Mr. Masterson,” he says. His voice is professional, controlled, completely devoid of emotion. “Congratulations. You’ve just turned a charity event into a league investigation, a PR nightmare, and potentially a lawsuit. Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve done in the last ten minutes?”
“The guy was harassing my teammate. He shoved me first.”
“I’ve seen the video. Multiple videos, actually. From every angle.” Noah swipes on his tablet, turns it to show me. “What do you see?”
On screen, I watch myself grab the drunk and throw him into the barricade. No sound. No context. Just me, looking like a violent asshole attacking a fan.
“That’s what the public sees,” Noah says. “That’s what sponsors see. That’s what the league will see when they review this incident. A player assaulting a fan at a family event.”
“That’s not the way it started,” I mutter.
“If you don’t have the evidence to dispute it, then it doesn’t really matter what the real story is.” Noah leans back in his chair. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to follow my instructions exactly. You’re not going to talk to the press, you’re not going to post on social media, you’re not going to do anything without clearing it through me first. Understood?”
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“I’m talking to a player who just gave the league ammunition to suspend him, gave sponsors reason to pull funding, and gave every hockey blog in North America a story about Raptors player violence.”
“But that’s not what happened.”
“That’s exactly what happened. The narrative is already set. Your job now is to follow my lead while I try to salvage this situation.”
I look at Marshall, then at Coach Enver, who’s still standing silently by the door.
“This is bullshit.”
“This is reality,” Noah says. “And the sooner you accept that, the better chance we have of keeping you on the ice instead of suspended.”
Marshall nods. “Noah’s in charge of all player communications now. You do what he says, when he says it. That’s not a request.”
I want to tell them all to go to hell. Want to walk out of this room and let them deal with their PR nightmare without me. But Marshall’s looking at me like this is non-negotiable, and I know I don’t actually have a choice.
“Fine.”
“Fine, what?” Noah asks.
“Fine, I’ll follow your lead.”
“Good. First step: you’re going to draft an apology.”
“For what? Protecting my teammate?”
“For the optics of throwing a fan at a charity event. You don’t have to mean it, Mr. Masterson. You just have to read it.”
He stands, picks up his tablet, and heads for the door.
“We’ll meet tomorrow morning at nine. Conference room B. Bring coffee if you need it to be coherent.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with Marshall and Coach Enver.
“I’d rather get a colonoscopy than work with that guy,” I grumble.
“He’s the best at what he does,” Marshall says. “Which is why I hired him. I need this cleaned up as soon as possible. And you’re going to do everything you can to fix the situation you created.”
“Great. So I’m the example.”
“You’re the most pressing problem. But you won’t be the last if we don’t get control of the narrative.” Marshall moves toward the door. “Go home. Don’t talk to anyone about this. And show up tomorrow ready to cooperate with Noah.”
