Page 80 of Puck Fest
Then Boston pulls their goalie with two minutes left so it’s six on five. They’re desperate.
Danny’s on the ice for defensive coverage and he blocks a shot that would’ve tied the game.
The buzzer sounds. The Raptors take the win.
The team celebrates on the ice, and I set up for post-game media when I see Alex standing near the press box entrance, watching me instead of the mayhem on ice.
When our eyes meet, he smiles.
My stomach drops.
After the game, Alex finds me in the media room.
“Hey, Noah. Good win tonight.”
“Thanks. Interviews start in ten minutes if you need access.”
“Actually, I wanted to run something by you.” He casually leans back against the wall. “I’ve been working on a piece about what happens after probation. How players maintain their progress.”
“Masterson’s doing fine. You can interview him yourself.”
“I plan to. But I’m also interested in your role. The oversight, the dedication.” He pulls out a small notebook and flips through it. “I’ve been tracking some interesting patterns. On October fifteenth, you left the arena at eleven PM. Masterson left fifteen minutes later. The same thing happened on October twenty-second and November third.”
My pulse spikes. “You’re tracking when we leave the arena?”
“I just notice things. It’s what I do.” He looks up. “Here’s where it gets interesting. You two are very careful not to leave together. There’s always a gap, like you’re coordinating.”
“Or we have different schedules,” I snap.
“Maybe. But then there’s the way you never look at him during games. Most PR directors check on players periodically. You avoid Masterson like it’s deliberate.”
“Do you have any real questions to ask? Or any valid observations to mention?” I roll my eyes. “I’m working and I don’t have time for your bullshit hypotheses.”
“You went three hours without one glance at a player you spent weeks personally supervising,” Alex says, ignoring my comment. “That’s not normal oversight, Noah. That’s conscious avoidance. And people only avoid looking when they’re trying to hide something.”
“You’re reading into coincidences.”
He closes his notebook. “I think there’s a story here. Something beyond professional rehabilitation. And I’m very good at finding stories, as you well know.”
He heads for the door, then pauses before leaving.
“You know what’s interesting about patterns? Once you see them, they’re everywhere. Makes me wonder what else I might find if I keep looking. And I will.” The threat in his voice makes my spine stiffen.
He leaves, and I stand there with my heart pounding.
He doesn’t have proof. But he’s watching. And he never rests without getting his story.
Over the next few days, Danny and I barely communicate. We exchange a few work emails, nothing personal. We don’t make eye contact at practice and leave about forty-five minutes in between our departures from the facility.
It’s torture.
By Friday, I’m exhausted from the constant vigilance.
But I can’t even relax because there’s a sponsor event being held tonight. It’s a mandatory team dinner at a downtown hotel. Players and key staff are required.
Which means Danny and I will be in the same room, pretending we’re nothing to each other.
I arrive at the hotel early and walk into the ballroom. Two hundred people in suits and cocktail dresses mingle with drinks. I exchange greetings with people I know, making small talk to distract myself from seeing Danny.
