Chapter 3
DANNY
Twenty-four hours ago, I was signing autographs for kids. Now I’m about to go into a meeting with a guy who probably irons his underwear, waiting to find out if I still have a career.
Noah Enver’s already here when I twist the door handle and walk inside. Shocker.
He sits at the head of the conference table with his laptop open, tablet next to it, and what looks like a three-inch-thick folder of papers. He’s wearing another expensive suit, dark gray this time, and he looks like he slept eight hours and woke up ready to ruin my day.
I look like I slept in my truck. Which I didn’t, but I might as well have.
“Mr. Masterson.” He doesn’t look up from his screen. “You’re early.”
“You said nine.”
“I did. Most people interpret that as ‘arrive at 9:05 and make excuses.’”
“I’m not most people.”
“No, you’re the person who assaulted a fan on camera yesterday.” Now he looks up, his dark eyes narrowed. “Sit down. We have work to do.”
I sit across from him and put my coffee on the table. “You always this charming in the morning?”
“I’m not here to be charming. I’m here to keep you from getting suspended.”
“The league hasn’t even reviewed the situation yet.”
“The league is reviewing it right now. I have a call with them in forty-five minutes.” He slides a piece of paper across the table. “This is your statement. Read it.”
I pick up the paper and scan the words. It’s corporate PR speak, the kind of non-apology apology that says sorry without actually admitting anything.
“I regret that my actions at yesterday’s Puck Fest event caused concern,” I read out loud. “I take full responsibility for my conduct and am committed to representing the Raptors organization with professionalism and respect going forward.”
I look up. “This is crap.”
“No, it’s carefully crafted language that acknowledges the incident without admitting legal liability.”
“It doesn’t say anything about why I did it.”
“Because ‘why you did it’ opens us up to a debate about whether your actions were justified. We’re not having that debate.”
“The guy was harassing Tate. Using hate speech. That context matters.”
“Context matters to you. The league cares about optics.” Noah leans back in his chair, his back so straight it’s like he’s got a pole shoved pretty far up his ass.
“Do you know how many phone calls I fielded last night? Seventeen. From sponsors, media outlets, and concerned parents asking if the Raptors condone violence.”
“I don’t condone violence. I condone protecting my teammates.”
“By throwing fans into barricades.”
“By stopping a drunk asshole from putting his hands on someone I care about.”
“Noble. Also illegal.”
“He shoved me first.”
“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 community service 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 on SportsCenter either.”
He has a point. I hate that he has a point.
“Anything else?” I say, sarcasm dripping from my words.
“Yes. You’re going to attend media training where you’ll learn how to handle hostile questions without losing your temper.”
“I don’t lose my temper.”
“You threw a man into a barricade yesterday.”
“That wasn’t temper. That was a calculated response to a threat.”
“Calculated.” Noah’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. “You calculated that assaulting someone at a charity event was the appropriate response?”
“I calculated that getting between him and Tate was necessary.” I shrug, a grin lifting my lips. “The barricade part was improvisation.”
“Improvisation that’s going to cost you at least twenty thousand in fines and probably a three-game suspension.”
“Worth it.”
“Is it? Is protecting your teammate’s feelings for thirty seconds worth three games of salary and potential criminal charges?”
I lean forward. “You think this is about feelings? The guy was attacking Tate because of his sexuality. He is a gay hater. You think I should have just stood there and let him get away with it?”
“I think there were a dozen better ways to handle it that didn’t involve violence.”
“Name one.”
“Alert security. Step between them. Use your platform to call out the behavior publicly afterward. Film it yourself for evidence.” Noah counts off on his fingers. “Any of those options would have been better than what you did.”
“Slower, too. And less effective.”
“But still legal.”
Dammit. This whole conversation is going in circles because we’re arguing from completely different positions.
He’s arguing from a place of PR strategy and legal liability.
I’m arguing from a place of not letting my teammate get harassed by a drunk bigot.
Neither of us is going to convince the other.
Noah closes his laptop. “The call with the league starts in twenty minutes. I’m going to present our position: you made an error in judgment while attempting to protect a teammate from hate speech.
You recognize the inappropriateness of your response and you’re taking steps to handle similar situations better in the future.
The team supports your intentions while condemning your actions. ”
“That’s a lot of words to say absolutely nothing.”
“That’s PR.” He stands up and puts the documents back into his folder. “Wait here. I’ll be back after the call to brief you on next steps.”
“Can’t wait.”
He pauses at the door, looks back at me. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a bad person. I think you’re impulsive and reckless and have terrible judgment. But not bad.”
I chuckle. “Shit, that’s almost a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
He walks out of the room leaving me in the conference room with my cold coffee and my carefully crafted bullshit non-apology.
I pull out my phone. About thirty texts from teammates have been blowing up our team chat. Most of them ask if I’m okay, a few ask what the hell I was thinking. One from Tate that says, Thanks for having my back yesterday. Sorry it turned into this mess.
I type back a text to him directly.
Not your fault. Guy was an asshole.
Still. You didn’t have to do that.
Yeah, I did.
Noah giving you hell?
Noah’s a prick.
He’s trying to help.
He’s trying to cover the team’s ass.
Maybe both.
I put my phone down and glare at the statement Noah wants me to memorize. Every word was carefully chosen to say as little as possible while sounding like it says something meaningful.
I fucking hate this. Hate the games, hate the spin, hate that doing the right thing somehow became doing the wrong thing because someone caught it on camera.
I mean, fuck social media.
But I also don’t want to get suspended. Don’t want to let the team down. Don’t want to give the league an excuse to make an example out of me.
So I’ll read the statement. I’ll do the media training. I’ll play nice with Coach’s uptight dickwad son who thinks I’m a liability.
And I’ll try not to think about the fact that if the same situation happened tomorrow, I’d probably do the exact same thing.
Because some things are worth the consequences.
Even if Noah Enver doesn’t get that.