Puck Fest (Dirty Puck #2)

Chapter 1

DANNY

Puck Fest is supposed to be the easy part of the season.

No hitting, no checking, just skating around with kids and signing autographs while sponsors get their photo ops. The kind of community outreach that’s easier than conditioning drills and makes the league happy.

I’m good at this stuff. Good at making people laugh, good at talking to kids who think we’re superheroes just because we can skate backward. Good at being Danny Masterson, team clown, guy who keeps things light even when everything’s falling apart.

What I’m not good at is keeping my mouth shut when someone crosses a line.

“Sign my jersey!” A kid shoves a Raptors sweater at me, grinning like I just made his whole year.

“You got it, buddy. What’s your name?”

“Eric!”

I scribble my signature with some encouraging message about working hard and following dreams, hand it back. The kid runs off to show his mom, and I’m already looking for the next one.

Riley Collins is a few feet over, signing a stick for a kid who can’t be more than seven.

He’s got that look rookies get at events like this — terrified to say the wrong thing, terrified to say the right thing wrong.

Nineteen years old, called up from Cleveland three weeks ago, hasn’t said more than ten words to anyone on the team.

Tate’s been trying to draw him out, but the kid keeps to himself.

I make a mental note to invite him to dinner with the guys this week. He’s gonna burn out if he doesn’t loosen up.

That’s when I hear it.

“Your kind doesn’t belong on the ice.”

The words cut through the crowd noise like a blade. I turn, scanning for the source.

There. Some asshole in his thirties, beer gut hanging over his jeans, pointing at Tate Barnes while his buddies laugh. Tate’s twenty feet away, talking to a group of kids about goaltending technique, completely unaware.

“You hear me?” The guy’s voice gets louder. “We don’t want people like you representing our team.”

The crowd around him goes quiet. People pulling their kids back, phones coming out. This is about to be a problem.

I’m moving before I decide to move.

“Hey.” I step between the asshole and Tate, keeping my voice level. “You need to leave.”

“Or what?” He’s drunk. I can smell it from three feet away. “You gonna protect your little boyfriend?”

“I’m gonna give you one chance to walk away.”

“Screw you. I paid to be here. I can say whatever the fuck I want.”

Behind me, I hear Tate’s voice. “Masterson, it’s fine. Just ignore him.”

It’s not fine. It’s never fine.

“Last chance,” I tell the drunk idiot. “Walk away.”

He shoves me instead.

Not hard, but enough. Enough that everyone sees it, enough that phones are recording, enough that I have about three seconds to decide if I’m going to be the bigger person or the guy who makes headlines.

Then he moves toward Tate, a menacing look on his face. His hands are out like he’s going to shove him, too.

I don’t think. I grab him by the shirt and throw him into the barricade separating fans from the ice. Not hard enough to really hurt him, but hard enough that he goes down and stays down.

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.”

Noah Enver sets his tablet on the conference table, pulls out a chair, 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.”

He leaves. Coach Enver finally moves from his position by the door, sits down in the chair Noah vacated.

“I know what you were trying to do,” he says.

“At least somebody does.”

“You were protecting Tate. I get it. But you can’t fight every battle with your fists, Masterson. Sometimes you have to be smarter than that.”

“The guy was harassing him for being gay. What was I supposed to do, let him keep going?”

“You were supposed to get security. You were supposed to de-escalate.” Coach’s voice is tired. “You were supposed to think about the consequences before you acted.”

“Would you have? If someone was going after your kid?”

Coach is quiet for a moment. “No. Probably not. But I’m not the one who has to answer to the league tomorrow.”

He stands, heads for the door.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad Tate has teammates who have his back. I just wish you’d found a way to do it that didn’t end up on every sports network in the country.”

Then he’s gone too, and I’m left alone in the conference room.

I leave the arena through a back exit, avoid the media camped out front, and drive home in silence.

My phone’s still blowing up. Twitter’s a mess. Half the comments calling me a hero for protecting Tate, half calling me a violent asshole who should be banned from the league.

Nobody’s asking what actually happened. Nobody cares about context.

Just the video. Just the narrative.

And now I’m stuck with the uptight PR guy who thinks I’m a liability.

This season just got a lot more complicated.