Chapter 4
NOAH
The league call goes better than expected.
Meaning, they didn’t immediately suspend Masterson for the rest of the season. That’s a definite win, considering the situation.
I walk back to the conference room with the verdict, mentally preparing for Masterson’s reaction. Two-game suspension, twenty-five thousand dollar fine, mandatory media training, and fifty hours of community service. Could have been worse.
A lot worse.
The fact that the fan shoved him first, which is barely visible in one of the videos, helped.
So did the context of what the attendee said to Tate, though the league was careful not to make that the focus.
They don’t want to look like they’re condoning violence even when it’s in response to bigotry.
I get it. Don’t agree with it, but I get it.
I push open the conference room door. Masterson’s still sitting where I left him, but he’s ditched the prepared statement and is scrolling through his phone. When he looks up, I notice…not for the first time…that his eyes are an unusual shade of green. Almost gray in certain light.
I grit my teeth. It’s not relevant. It’s also not something I should be noticing.
“Well?” He puts his phone down. “How fucked am I?”
“Two games, twenty-five thousand, fifty hours community service, and mandatory media training.”
He lets out a breath. “Shit. I got off easy, right?”
I give a swift nod.
“So I’m not banned from the league or being arrested for assault?”
“Not today. We haven’t gotten word that the attendee is filing charges for assault.
But that’s always a possibility and we’ll handle it if it happens.
” I sit down across from him and pull out my tablet.
“The suspension starts immediately. You’ll miss Friday against Seattle and Sunday against Vancouver.
You’re back the following Tuesday against Colorado. ”
“Two games. That’s it?”
“That’s it. The league took into account that the fan shoved you first and that you were responding to hate speech. They also noted you don’t have a history of assaulting people.”
“I’ve been fined three times and suspended once.”
“For fighting during games. That’s different.” I pull up my notes. “The community service focuses on anti-bullying programs and LGBTQ+ youth groups. We’re positioning you as someone who cares about these issues but made a mistake in judgment.”
“Because I do care about these issues.”
“Then show it. Do the work, and maybe people will see you as something other than a violent thug.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not a thug.”
“I know. But that’s what the video shows. That’s what we’re fixing.”
He’s quiet for a minute, watching me with that intense stare that makes me want to shift in my seat. It’s unsettling, the way he looks at people. Like he’s figuring them out, filing details away.
“Why do you care?” he asks.
“Because it’s my job.”
“Is it? Or is it because you actually think I’m not a bad guy?”
I think about the video I’ve watched probably fifty times now. The way he moved without hesitation to put himself between the fan and Tate. Pure instinct. No thought about consequences or cameras or his career.
“I think you made a choice yesterday,” I say. “A choice most people wouldn’t make. Whether that makes you brave or reckless is still up for debate.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
He leans back in his chair, and I notice the way his shoulders fill out his t-shirt. He’s bigger than he looks on camera. More solid. The kind of build that comes from years of professional hockey and genetics that aren’t fair to the rest of us.
“How long have you worked in PR?” he asks.
“Six years. Chicago sports management firm before this.”
“And you came here because...?”
“Because it was a good opportunity.”
“Because your dad’s the coach.”
The words land exactly where he probably intended. I place my tablet on the table and meet his eyes.
“Because Bob Marshall offered me a job that fit my career goals,” I say, keeping my voice even. “The fact that my father happens to coach here is something I thought about before saying yes. I know how it looks. I also know I’m qualified for this job regardless of my last name.”
“Touchy subject?”
“Realistic concern.” I pick up my tablet again. “I spent six years building my reputation in Chicago specifically so when I took a role like this, no one could say I didn’t earn it. The optics of working with my father are complicated. They don’t change the fact that I’m damn good at what I do.”
He shrugs. “Never said you weren’t.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied it looks convenient. Which it does.” He grins, and something about that smile does things to my pulse that are completely inappropriate. And very inconvenient. “Doesn’t mean you’re not good at your job. Just means people are going to talk.”
“Let them talk. My work speaks for itself.”
“Does it? Because you’ve been here two weeks and you’re already handling a crisis involving your father’s player. That’s going to raise questions.”
“Then I’ll answer them with results.” I stand and gather my things. “The media training starts Tuesday. Nine AM. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He stands too, and I realize he’s got at least three inches on me. Maybe four. “Where’s this youth hockey thing?”
“Downtown rink. Saturday at ten. I cleared it with Coach Enver—”
“Your dad.”
“—with the head coach,” I correct. “You’re excused from morning practice.”
“How nice. The coach’s son making decisions about my practice schedule.”
My blood boils at that. He’s testing me, seeing how far he can push.
“The head coach approved the schedule change at the GM’s request,” I say. “I don’t make decisions about practice. I coordinate community appearances and media obligations. If you have a problem with that, take it up with Bob Marshall.”
“Relax. I’m just messing with you.” He moves toward the door, and I catch myself watching the way he moves. Confident. Easy. Like someone who’s completely comfortable in his own skin.
I need to stop noticing things about him.
“Masterson.”
He turns back, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. “Yeah?”
“Don’t be late Saturday. And wear something that doesn’t make you look like you just rolled out of bed.”
“What if I did just roll out of bed?”
“Then lie about it. These are kids. They want to see their hockey heroes looking the part.”
“I’m nobody’s hero.”
“You are to them. Act like it.”
Something shifts in his expression. The cocky grin fades, replaced by something more serious. Almost vulnerable.
“Is that what you think? That I should be some kind of role model?”
“I think you already are, whether you want to be or not. What you do with that is up to you.”
He studies me for another long moment, then nods. “See you Saturday, Noah.”
It’s the first time he’s used my first name instead of “PR guy” or “Coach’s son.”
I hate that I notice. Hate more that it affects me.
“Saturday,” I echo.
He leaves, and I’m alone in the conference room with my notes and my completely inappropriate observations about a player I’m supposed to be managing professionally.
I stuff my things into a briefcase, head back to my office, and try to focus on work.
But I keep thinking about the way he looked at me when I told him he was a role model. Like it mattered what I thought. Like maybe he wanted to live up to that.
This is a problem.
Danny Masterson is supposed to be a professional obligation. A crisis to manage. A player who needs damage control and media training and supervision.
He's definitely not supposed to be someone whose opinion seems to matter.
I pull up the video one more time, watch him step between the fan and Tate, and try to see him the way I’m supposed to: as a liability who needs to be controlled.
Instead, I see someone who cares enough about people to put himself in danger without thinking twice.
Someone with green eyes that shift to gray.
Someone who called me Noah like it meant something.
I sigh, close my laptop, and head home.
Tomorrow, I’ll schedule his community service. I’ll set up the media training. I’ll draft the statement about his suspension.
I’ll do my job the way I’m supposed to.
And I’ll ignore the fact that when he smiled at me, something in my chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with work.
This is fine. I’m fine.
It’s just attraction. Physical chemistry. Completely manageable.
I just have to make sure it stays that way.