Chapter 2
NOAH
The video has been viewed three million times in six hours.
I’m sitting in my office at the Raptors arena, watching it play on loop across multiple screens. ESPN, TSN, every sports blog in North America. The same ten seconds, over and over.
Danny Masterson grabbing a fan by the shirt. Throwing him into a barricade. The fan going down. The crowd gasping. Security rushing in.
Perfect optics for a PR disaster.
My phone buzzes with a text from Bob Marshall.
League wants a call tomorrow at 10. Be ready.
I shoot off a response.
I’ll have a statement prepared.
He texts back almost immediately.
Make it good. Sponsors are already nervous.
I put my phone down, lean back in my chair, and try not to think about the fact that I’ve been in this job for exactly two weeks and I’m already dealing with the kind of crisis that can end careers.
Not just Masterson’s career. Mine too.
This was supposed to be a career-defining opportunity. Director of Communications for a major market NHL team, high-profile role, chance to work with one of the best organizations in the league.
The fact that my father is the head coach complicates things.
Marshall sold me on it six months ago over dinner in Chicago, where I’d been handling PR for a sports management firm.
“You’re the best crisis team in hockey. You’d get major market exposure, have unlimited budget.
You’d be reporting directly to me, not your father.
This is about your skillset, not your last name. ”
I knew how it would look. Knew every media outlet would mention “Coach Enver’s son” in every article. Knew players would wonder if I got the job because of my father instead of my credentials.
But it was too good to pass up. And I was arrogant enough to think I could make people forget about the connection by being so good at my job that it wouldn’t matter.
Two weeks in, and I’m already dealing with a crisis that could define my entire future here.
My door opens without a knock. Dad walks in, still in his team jacket, looking exactly as tired as I feel.
“You should go home,” he says.
“So should you.”
“I’m not the one who has to present a damage control strategy to the GM and the league tomorrow.”
“Fair point.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Want to tell me about Masterson?”
Dad sits, runs a hand through his hair. “What do you want to know?”
“Why he thinks violence solves problems.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is. But three million people have now watched him assault a fan, and I need to know if this is a pattern or an isolated incident.”
“He’s protective. Of his teammates, of the people he cares about. Sometimes too protective.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.” Dad leans forward. “Look, I know how this looks. I know what the video shows. But the fan was harassing Tate, using hate speech, and Masterson stepped in.”
“By throwing him into a barricade.”
“After the fan shoved him first.”
“Which isn’t on video. Which means it didn’t happen as far as public opinion is concerned.”
I stand up and move to the window overlooking the practice rink.
Below, the ice is dark, empty, and waiting for tomorrow’s morning skate.
In a few hours, the building will be full of players and coaches and staff, all of them wondering if Masterson’s going to be suspended, if the team’s going to face sanctions, if this is going to cost them their season.
“Tell me about him,” I say without turning around. “The real version. Not the public persona.”
“Masterson’s been with the Raptors for four years. He’s a solid player, good teammate, takes too many penalties but usually for the right reasons.”
“Define ‘right reasons.’”
“Defending teammates. Standing up when someone crosses a line. He’s the first one into a fight if someone takes a cheap shot at our guys.”
“So he’s violent.”
“He’s loyal. There’s a difference.”
I turn to face him. “Not when the video shows him attacking a civilian.”
“The fan wasn’t a civilian. He was a drunk asshole spewing hate at a family event.”
“Which is terrible. But it doesn’t justify physical assault.”
Dad stands, moves toward the door. “I’m not saying what Masterson did was right. I’m saying it’s more complicated than a ten-second video clip.”
“Complicated doesn’t sell. Clear narratives sell. And right now, the narrative is ‘violent hockey player attacks fan.’”
“Then change the narrative.”
“That’s what Marshall’s paying me to do.”
He pauses at the door. “Noah, I know this isn’t how you wanted to start this job. But Masterson’s not the problem. The problem is we live in a world where context doesn’t matter as much as optics.”
“Context always matters. I just have to find a way to make people care about it.”
He leaves, and I’m alone with my screens and my three-million-view problem.
I pull up Masterson’s file. Four years with the Raptors, 127 penalty minutes last season, disciplinary record that includes three fines and one suspension for fighting. His stats are solid—good points per game, decent plus-minus, respected by teammates.
But his reputation precedes him. “Brilliant player. Absolute menace.”
I’ve read the scouting reports, the media coverage, the fan forums. Half the league thinks he’s a goon who should be banned. The other half thinks he’s exactly the kind of player you want on your team.
I scroll through his social media. Lots of chirping at other players, lots of jokes, lots of photos with teammates. The image he projects is all humor and bravado, the guy who keeps the locker room loose.
But something about today’s incident doesn’t fit that image. The way he moved to protect Tate wasn’t calculated. It was instinctive. Immediate.
Like he couldn’t have stopped himself even if he’d wanted to.
My phone buzzes again with a text from an unknown number. I furrow my brow at the screen.
This is Tate Barnes. Can we talk about what happened today?
I debate ignoring it, then type back.
Not without clearing it through official channels. Everything related to the incident goes through me now.
That’s why I’m texting you.
Office hours are 9-5. See me tomorrow.
Masterson was protecting me. The video doesn’t show the whole story.
I grit my teeth. Jesus, what part of 9-5 doesn’t this guy understand?
The video shows what three million people are seeing. That’s the story I have to manage.
But he’s not a bad guy.
I never said he was.
Then why are you treating him like one?
I let out a frustrated sigh and toss my phone onto the table without responding. This is already getting complicated, and I haven’t even started dealing with the league investigation yet.
The truth is, I don’t think Masterson’s a bad guy. I think he’s impulsive, reckless, and completely lacking in self-preservation instincts. But the look on his face when he stepped between that fan and Tate wasn’t malicious.
It was protective. Almost desperately so.
Which makes this whole situation more difficult than it should be.
I pull up the video one more time and watch it with fresh eyes. Masterson moves fast, puts himself between the fan and Tate before the situation escalates. The fan shoves him…I can see it now, but it’s barely visible in the frame. Masterson’s body shifts backward from the impact.
Then the fan moves toward Tate, and Masterson reacts.
It’s still assault. Still indefensible from a legal standpoint. But it’s not unprovoked.
I make notes for tomorrow’s meeting with Marshall and the league:
1. Masterson acted in defense of teammate being harassed with hate speech
2. Fan initiated physical contact
3. Masterson’s response was disproportionate but not premeditated
4. Recommend: public apology, community service, anger management training
5. Position team as taking player conduct seriously while supporting anti-harassment stance
I frown at the words. It’s not perfect. But it’s a framework.
My phone buzzes. Another text from Tate appears on the screen and my mouth twists.
He’d do it again. Just so you know. If someone came after any of us, he’d step in without thinking.
I scrub a hand down the front of my face.
That’s what concerns me.
It shouldn’t. You want guys like that on your team.
Not if they end up suspended or sued.
Better than standing by and doing nothing.
He has a point. But my job isn’t to debate philosophy. My job is to keep this organization out of the news for the wrong reasons.
I close my laptop, organize my files, and head for the parking garage. It’s nearly midnight, and I have to be back here in nine hours to meet with Masterson and start damage control.
In the car, I think about what Dad said.
The problem is we live in a world where context doesn’t matter as much as optics.
He’s right. But he’s also wrong.
Context always matters. The challenge is making people care about it when the optics are terrible.
I pull up the video one more time on my phone at a red light. I watch Masterson’s face as he steps between the fan and Tate. There’s no calculation there. No thought about consequences or cameras or careers.
Just pure, instinctive protection.
It’s going to make my job impossible.
And for some reason I can’t quite explain, that makes me more determined to fix this than anything else that’s happened today.
I get home, pour myself a whiskey, and start drafting tomorrow’s statement.
Whatever else Danny Masterson is, he’s not going to be the reason my first major crisis ends in disaster.
Even if I have to drag him through the process kicking and screaming.