Page 2 of Puck Fest
The crowd gasps. Security’s moving. Phones are everywhere, capturing every angle.
“Assault!” someone yells. “He just assaulted a fan!”
The drunk’s on the ground, playing it up, holding his shoulder and moaning like I broke it. His buddies are recording, probably already uploading shit to social media.
Security pulls me back. Tate’s there with a hand on my arm.
“Jesus, Masterson. Why did you do that?”
“He was coming at you.”
“He was drunk and stupid. Now you’re the one who’s going to get suspended.”
“He put his hands on me first.”
“That’s not how the videos are going to look.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. But I’d do it again in a second.
Coach Enver appears, face grim. “Masterson. With me. Now.”
I follow him through the crowd, away from the cameras, away from the kids who were having fun five minutes ago. Through a back hallway, past locker room and into a conference room.
Inside, the GM, Bob Marshall, is already waiting. He’s standing by the window, arms crossed, his face twisted into a grimace.
“Sit,” Marshall says.
I sit.
Coach Enver takes a position by the door, silent.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Marshall’s voice is controlled, but I can hear the anger bubbling underneath.
“He was harassing Tate for being gay. Then he shoved me and went after him.”
“So you threw him into a barricade in front of three hundred people with cameras.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “You don’t mess with one of my teammates and expect to get away with it.”
“Jesus Christ, Masterson.” Marshall moves to the table, slapping his hands on the wood grain. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? This happened less than ten minutes ago and we’ve already got sponsors calling, league officials demanding answers, and a potential lawsuit from that fan.”
“He attacked first.”
“Can you prove it?”
I open my mouth, then snap my lips closed.
“Exactly.” Marshall straightens. “So here’s the situation. The league’s going to review this. The team’s going to issue a statement. And you’re going to do exactly what we tell you to do. No exceptions.”
The door opens. A guy walks in who I’ve never seen before. He’s maybe thirty, dressed like he’s never been to a hockey game in his life. Expensive suit, perfect hair that’s styled to look sexed up, and the kind of face that belongs in a boardroom, not a locker room. He’s got an iPad in his hand and looks at me like I’m something he stepped in.
“This is Noah Enver,” Marshall says. “Our new Director of Communications. I brought him in two weeks ago.”
I glance at Coach Enver, who’s still standing by the door, expression unreadable.
“Coach’s son?” I ask.
“Yes,” Marshall says. “And the best PR and crisis management specialist in the league. Which is why he’s here. As of five minutes ago, Masterson, you’re his top priority.” He shakes his head. “I never imagined we’d have to put him to work so quickly.”
