Chapter 6
NOAH
Spending two hours alone in a room with Masterson is either going to fix his media problem or create a new one entirely.
With Masterson, I’m not optimistic.
“You’re making a habit of this,” I say.
“Punctuality?”
“Not being late.”
“I’m a man of many talents.” He looks around the small room, at the camera setup, at the two chairs positioned to face each other. “This looks like fun.”
“It’s not supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to keep you from saying something stupid to reporters.”
“I don’t say stupid things to reporters.”
“You told an ESPN journalist last season that if the refs did their jobs, you wouldn’t have to do it for them.”
“That’s not stupid. That’s accurate.” But he can’t hide the grin spreading across his face. It’s sexy as hell and wildly inconvenient of me to realize it, especially when we’re going to be sitting in close proximity for the next couple of hours.
“That’s the kind of statement that gets you fined.” I gesture to one of the chairs. “Sit. We’re going to practice.”
He sits, and the chair, which is built for normal-sized humans, looks small under him. Jesus, he’s huge. Six-four, probably two hundred and twenty pounds, all of it muscle and bad decisions.
I sit across from him and pull out my question list.
“Here’s how this works. I’m going to ask you questions the way a hostile reporter would. Your job is to answer without getting defensive, without admitting fault, and without saying anything that creates new headlines.”
“So basically, I have to lie.”
“Think of it as being strategic.” I look at the first question. “Let’s start easy. ‘Mr. Masterson, do you regret your actions at Puck Fest?’”
“Yes.”
“Expand on that.”
“Yes, I regret my actions at Puck Fest.”
It’s going to be a long couple of hours. I put the paper down. “You have to give them more than that or they’ll fill in the blanks themselves.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Say that you regret the way you handled the situation. Say that you let your emotions override your judgment. Say that you’re committed to representing the Raptors with professionalism.”
“That’s your statement from the other day.”
“Yes, and it works. Try it.”
He sighs and shifts in his chair. The sudden movement makes his shoulders look even broader, if that’s possible.
I press my lips together.
Focus, Noah.
“I regret the way I handled the situation at Puck Fest,” he says, his voice totally flat. “I let my emotions override my judgment, and I’m committed to representing the Raptors with professionalism going forward.”
“Better. But you sound like you’re reading a script.”
He looks at me, a grimace twisting his features. “I am reading a script. You wrote it.”
“I wrote talking points. You’re supposed to make them sound natural.”
“How am I supposed to make corporate bullshit sound natural?”
“By believing it. Or at least pretending to believe it.” I lean forward and the scent of his cologne teases my nostrils, taunting me. I clutch the sides of the paper. “Look, I get that this feels fake. But the alternative is saying what you actually think, which will get you suspended again.”
“What I actually think is that I’d do it again if someone came after one of my teammates.”
“And that’s exactly what you can’t say to reporters.”
“Why not? It’s honest.”
“Because honest doesn’t always play well in the media. Honest gets twisted, taken out of context, used against you.” I pick up the next question. “Next one. ‘Some people are calling you a hero for defending your teammate. What do you say to that?’”
He’s quiet for a moment, obviously thinking.
“I’m not a hero. I’m just someone who gives a shit about the people I care about.”
“Can’t say ‘shit’ in an interview.”
“I’m not a hero. I’m just someone who cares about my teammates.”
“Better. But expand. Why do you care?”
“Because they’re family. Because when you spend that much time with people, they matter. Because...” He trails off, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Because that’s what you do. You protect the people you care about.”
There’s something raw in his voice when he says it. Something that makes me think this isn’t just about Tate or the Puck Fest incident. This is deeper. Older. Maybe buried for a reason.
“That’s good,” I say with a nod. “That’s what they need to hear. The emotion, the sincerity. Not the corporate language.”
“So I should just be honest?”
“You should be honest about your feelings. Just not honest about your actions.” I check the next question. “This one’s harder. ‘Do you think the suspension was fair?’”
“No.”
“You can’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes you look like you don’t take responsibility for your actions.”
“I take responsibility. I just don’t think two games and twenty-five grand is proportional to stopping a drunk asshole from harassing someone.”
“And that’s the kind of statement that extends your suspension.” I set the paper down. “Here’s what you say: ‘I respect the league’s decision and I’m using this time to reflect on how I can handle similar situations better in the future.’”
“That’s not an answer.”
“That’s politics. Welcome to professional sports.”
He leans back, crosses his arms. His shirt stretches across his chest, and I catch myself from staring before he notices.
“Let me ask you something,” he says.
“This isn’t a two-way conversation.”
“Humor me. Do you think the suspension was fair?”
I look up, meet his eyes. They’re that unusual green-gray color. Right now, in the fluorescent conference room light, they’re more gray than green. Sparks flicker in the depths and I stare for a second too long before answering.
I clear my throat. “I think the suspension was inevitable. Whether it’s fair is irrelevant. What matters is how you respond to it.”
“That’s a politician’s answer.”
“I’m a PR director. Close enough.”
“Come on, Noah. Off the record. Just between us. Do you think I deserved two games and twenty-five thousand dollars for protecting my teammate?”
The way he says my name makes my pulse jump.
“Off the record?”
“Off the record.”
“I think you made a choice that most people wouldn’t have the guts to make. I think your execution was terrible and your judgment was worse. And I think the punishment fits the crime, even if the crime was committed for the right reasons.”
He studies me for a long moment. “That’s the most honest thing you’ve said to me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Why not? I like you better when you’re honest.”
“I’m not here for you to like me. I’m here to keep you from destroying your career.”
“Maybe I can do both.”
There’s something in his voice that jars me and forces my eyes back to his. He watches me with an intensity that makes the small room shrink.
“We should get back to the questions,” I say.
“We should. But I have one more.”
“Masterson—”
“Why did you really take this job?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“You said it was a good opportunity despite your dad being the coach. But Chicago to Oakland is a big move. There had to be more to it than just career advancement.”
“That’s personal,” I say, thinking my sharp tone will shut him down.
Wrong.
“So? We’re off the record.”
“We’re not off the record. We’re in the middle of media training.”
“Then take a break. Answer the question.”
I should end this now and redirect the focus back to the training, maintain professional boundaries, keep the focus on his career instead of mine.
But instead, I hear the words come out of my mouth. “I wanted to prove something.”
“What?”
“That I could do this job without my father’s help.
That I could handle a major market, high-pressure position and succeed on my own merit.
” I put my notes down. “Everyone in Chicago knew me as ‘that PR guy from the sports firm.’ Here, I’m ‘Coach Enver’s son.
’ I can’t win. So I figured I’d at least take the better job and deal with the perception issues. ”
“That’s why you get so pissed when I mention your dad.”
“I get pissed because you use it as a weapon. Like the fact that he’s my father somehow disqualifies me from doing my job.”
“I don’t think that.”
“You’ve implied it multiple times.”
“I’ve implied that it looks complicated. Which it does.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “But I’ve also seen you work. You’re good at this. Really good. And I don’t think that has anything to do with your last name.”
It’s the second genuine compliment he’s given me. A tiny spark flares in my chest. I’d like to say it’s pride but let’s be real.
It’s something much more carnal than that.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He grins. “See? I can be nice when I want to be.”
“Will wonders never cease,” I say drily.
We sit there for a minute, the space between us feeling charged with something I don’t want to name, mainly because I’m afraid to admit it to myself.
“We should get back to the questions,” I finally say.
“Yeah. We should.”
But neither of us moves.
The camera’s still recording. The questions are still sitting on my lap. We’re supposed to be practicing media responses, not having personal conversations in a room which seems to be shrinking by the second.
“Next question,” I say, grabbing my notes. “’What have you learned from this experience?’”
“I’ve learned that PR directors are more complicated than they seem.”
“That’s not the right answer.”
“It’s an honest answer.”
“Masterson—”
“Fine. I was just having a little fun.” He lets out a huff.
“I’ve learned that protecting people you care about is important, but so is thinking about consequences.
I’ve learned that intentions don’t matter as much as actions.
And I’ve learned that sometimes the people trying to help you are the ones you want to fight the most.”
He’s looking at me when he says that last part, and I know we’re not talking about media training anymore.
“That’s good,” I manage to choke out. “Use that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We finish the session, run through the rest of the questions, practice his responses until they sound natural instead of scripted. By the time we’re done, it’s almost noon.
“Same time next week?” he asks as we pack up.
“You only need one session. Unless you screw up again.”
“So probably same time next week.” He chuckles and stands up.
“Try not to screw up again.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
He leaves, and I’m alone in the conference room with the camera and the questions and the lingering awareness that something shifted between us today.
Something I should probably crush before it becomes a problem.
Except it already is a problem.
Because I’m attracted to him. Not just physically, although there’s definitely that, but to the person underneath the reckless exterior. To the person who cares so much about protecting people that he’ll tank his own career to do it.
To the person who asked why I took this job like he actually wanted to know the answer.
I pack up and head back to my office, trying not to think about how close we were sitting.
Trying not to think about what might have happened if we’d stayed in that room any longer.
This is fine. I’m fine.
I just need to maintain professional boundaries and remember why getting involved with a player, especially this player, is a terrible idea.
Even if part of me is starting to wonder what it would be like if I didn’t.