Page 9 of Puck Fest
“Which isn’t clearly visible on any of the videos that have been viewed four million times since yesterday.” Noah pulls up something on his tablet and looks back at me with the piercing stare that makes me feel like a bug being smoked under a magnifying glass. “This is the media narrative. ‘Raptors player attacks fan.’ Not ‘player defends teammate.’ Not ‘fan provokes altercation.’ Just ‘player attacks fan.’”
I stare at the screen, at the headlines, at my own face frozen in that moment of grabbing the drunk’s shirt.
“So what’s your plan? Make me apologize for doing the right thing?”
“My plan is to position you as someone who made a mistake in judgment while trying to protect a teammate from harassment. To acknowledge that your intentions were good but your execution was poor. To demonstrate that you’re taking responsibility and working to handle similar situations better in the future.”
“Translation: lie.”
“Translation: give the public a narrative they can accept that doesn’t destroy your career or cost the organization millions in sponsorship dollars.”
I lean back and cross my arms. “And if I refuse?”
“Then you’ll be suspended, possibly sued, and definitely out of a job.” Noah’s voice doesn’t change. Still calm, still professional, still completely in control. “Is that what you want?”
“I want people to know what actually happened.”
“What actually happened is that you assaulted someone on camera at a community event. That’s the reality we’re dealing with.”
“That’s not the full reality.”
“It’s the reality that three million people saw.” He closes his tablet. “Look, I understand you think you were doing the right thing. I even believe your intentions were good. But intentions don’t change the fact that you gave the league and the media exactly what they needed to crucify you.”
“So I should have just let him keep harassing Tate?”
“You should have gotten security. De-escalated the situation. Done literally anything other than put your hands on an attendee.”
“He put his hands on me first,” I say, my voice rising.
“Prove it. Show me the clear, unambiguous video evidence that would hold up in court.”
I let out a deep sigh and rake a hand through my hair because I can’t. We both know I can’t.
Noah opens the folder and pulls out several documents. Then he tosses them onto the table in front of me. “This is the league’s disciplinary policy. This is precedent from similar incidents. And this is the statement I’m going to make on the call in thirty minutes. You can either cooperate and help me minimize the damage, or you can fight me and make it worse.”
“Those are my options?”
“Those are your options.”
I stare at him across the table. He stares back, completely unfazed. This guy doesn’t blink, doesn’t crack, doesn’t give an inch.
It’s annoying as hell.
“Fine. What do you need from me?”
“I need you to read that statement, memorize it, and be prepared to repeat it to the press. I need you to stay off social media until this blows over. I need you to attend the communityservice events I’m going to arrange. And I need you to not assault anyone else for the foreseeable future.”
“That last one’s going to be hard if people keep coming after my teammates.”
“Then learn to use your words instead of your fists.”
“Words don’t stop drunk assholes.”
“No, but they don’t end up onSportsCentereither.”
He has a point. I hate that he has a point.
“Anything else?” I say, sarcasm dripping from my words.
