Page 43 of Puck Fest
“Because last time we worked in the same arena, things didn’t end well.”
That’s an understatement. “That was your choice. You betrayed my trust.”
Alex shrugs. “I reported a story. There’s a difference. And you know how hard it is to make a name for yourself in this business. I had to do what I did.”
“You took private information I shared with you and turned it into a headline that destroyed someone’s career. That makes you a low life piece of shit.”
“And fucking amazing at my job.” Alex leans back. “Devin Edwards is fine now. Coaching in the AHL.”
“You don't get to decide that.”
“I didn't decide anything. I reported a story that was true. Devin Edwards was a player on the Blackhawks dealing with mental health issues that affected his performance. That's a public-interest story, Noah. Fans were paying for tickets. Sponsors were paying for visibility. Everyone in that arena had a stake in the truth.”
“It was private.”
“Nothing about a professional athlete's performance is private. That's the deal they signed when they took the contract.” Alex's voice goes quieter, almost gentle, which is somehow worse. “I know you don't see it that way. I know you think we should protect them. But you and I do different jobs. Yours is to make them look good. Mine is to tell people what's actually happening. We can't both be right.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point? Why don’t you tell me what you really want to say, Noah?”
I lean forward. “The point is that I need you to stay away from my team. Don’t dig into my players. Don’t go fishing for stories. Cover the game and leave the city.”
“I’m a credentialed journalist. I have every right?—“
“You have the right to cover hockey. You don’t have the right to exploit personal information for clicks.”
“Is that what you think I do?”
“That’s what I know you do. You did it to Edwards. You used information I gave you in private, during our relationship, and turned it into front-page news.”
“He was struggling with mental health issues that were affecting his performance. That’s news.”
“It was private. He confided in me as his PR rep. I mentioned it to you in confidence.”
“There’s no such thing as private when you’re dating a journalist, Noah. I thought you understood that.”
“I understood that I could trust you. I was wrong.”
Alex’s expression hardens. “You’re still mad about this. After three years.”
“You destroyed his career. His endorsements pulled out. The team questioned his stability. Fans turned on him. All because you wanted a story.”
“I wanted the truth. That’s what journalists do.”
“That’s what opportunists do.”
The door opens, and I glance up.
Masterson walks in. And my heart damn near stops when his green-gray eyes tangle with mine.
He’s in jeans and a Raptors hoodie, hair perfectly tousled, clearly just grabbing coffee before heading somewhere. He sees me immediately, and his eyes slide to Alex sitting across from me at this intimate corner table.
Something shifts in his expression and he moves toward our table.
Alex notices him too and grins. “Danny Masterson. Small world.” He stands up and shoves his hand at Masterson. “Alex Naylor, Chicago Tribune. I’ll be covering your game Friday.”
Masterson shakes his hand, but his eyes don’t move from mine. “Nice to meet you.”
