Chapter 10
NOAH
I shouldn’t have gone to Vancouver.
That’s what I keep telling myself three days later, sitting in my office staring at the article on my laptop screen I’m not actually reading.
Marshall asked me to check on Masterson. I did. Job done.
Except I didn’t just check on him. I acted like a jealous asshole when some woman offered to buy him a drink.
I physically got in between them and used my position to shut down a harmless interaction. Then I snapped at him when he called me on it.
Professional. Real professional.
My phone buzzes with a text from Chuck Flannelly, a PR director I worked with in Chicago.
Bay Area Sports PR Mixer tonight at The Vault. 7 PM. You coming?
Shit, with everything going on, I’d totally forgotten the event. It’s a monthly networking thing, industry people comparing notes and making connections. Usually I’d skip it since these events are more about posturing than actual networking. But maybe getting out of my own head would help.
I type back. I’ll be there.
I get Chuck’s reply seconds later.
Good. Haven’t seen you since you moved. Drinks on me.
The Vault is an upscale bar in SoMa that caters to the sports industry crowd. When I arrive at seven, it’s already packed with PR directors, agents, sports journalists, a few athletes I recognize but don’t know personally.
Chuck spots me immediately and waves me over to the bar.
“Noah! Look at you, big-time NHL PR now.” He claps me on the back. “Good to see you, Chuck.”
“Oakland treating you well?”
“It’s been good. Busy.”
“I bet. The Raptors are having a solid season.” He holds up two fingers at the bartender. “How’s it feel working for your dad?”
There it is. Thirty seconds in and we’re already on the nepotism gig.
“I work for Bob Marshall, the GM. My father’s the head coach. Different departments.”
“Sure, sure. But still, family business and all that.” Chuck grins like he’s joking, but there’s an edge to it. “Must be nice having connections.”
My hand tightens around the glass. “I got the job based on my qualifications.”
“Of course you did. Chicago’s loss, right?” He hands me one of the glasses of whiskey the bartender places on the bar. “Though I heard some people were surprised when you left since it was a sudden move and all.”
“Marshall made an offer I couldn’t refuse in a major market, with bigger budget and more responsibility.”
“And your dad just happened to be coaching there.”
I take a drink instead of responding. This is exactly why I hate these events.
“Noah Enver!”
I turn. Brett Harris walks over, and my stomach sinks. Brett and I worked at the same firm in Chicago three years ago. He left for hopes of a bigger agency bringing him on and spent the last few years trying to land an NHL gig. Last I heard, he was still pitching.
“Brett. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Yeah, I flew in for the event. Networking, you know how it is.” He looks me up and down. “Heard you landed the Raptors job. Director of Communications, right?”
“That’s right.”
He nods his head. “Impressive. How’d you manage that?”
“Experience. Good timing. Bob Marshall was looking for someone with a crisis management background.”
“Right. Crisis management.” Brett smirks. “And the fact that your dad’s the head coach didn’t hurt.”
Chuck laughs. “That’s what I said.”
“It’s not like that,” I say, keeping my voice level even though I want to lash out.
“Come on, Noah. We’re all professionals here. No judgment.” Brett signals the bartender for another drink. “But you have to admit, having family connections makes things easier. Most of us have to earn these positions the hard way.”
“I did earn it.”
“Sure. But you also had an in that the rest of us don’t have. Those are just facts.”
A few other people look over at us, listening. I recognize some faces from the industry…other PR directors, a couple of sports agents, a journalist from the Chronicle. Fuck, I do not want to become the story tonight.
“So how is it?” someone asks. “Working with your father?”
“Fine. We maintain professional boundaries.”
“Must be tricky though,” Brett says. “Managing team communications when your dad’s calling the plays. What happens when those interests conflict?”
“They don’t conflict,” I say, struggling to keep the grimace from overtaking my expression. “We have different roles and different responsibilities.”
“What about that Masterson situation?” The journalist leans in, interested now. “That was your first big crisis, right? Player assaults a fan at a charity event?”
“Masterson was defending a teammate from hate speech. The situation was handled appropriately.”
“Masterson’s got quite the reputation,” Brett says. “Reckless, takes bad penalties, bit of a hothead. That’s a tough first assignment.”
“He’s a solid player who made an error in judgment. We addressed it,” I say before taking a long pull of my whiskey.
“How’d the league come down on him?” Chuck asks.
“Two-game suspension, fine, and community service.” I shrug. “It’s standard disciplinary action.”
“Could’ve been worse,” the journalist says. “I heard there was debate about making it longer. Five games, maybe more.”
“The league reviewed all available evidence and made their decision.”
“I bet Marshall was relieved you got it handled quickly,” Brett says. “Having the coach’s son managing the crisis probably helped smooth things over internally.”
“The outcome had nothing to do with my relationship to Coach Enver. It was based on the facts of the case and appropriate league protocols.” Sweat prickles on the back of my neck.
“If you say so.” Brett takes a drink. “Just saying, must be nice to have that kind of access. Most PR directors have to fight for a seat at the table.”
The conversation shifts, people drifting away to other groups. I’m left standing with Chuck who’s looking at me with something like pity.
“Don’t let Brett get to you,” Chuck says. “He’s bitter. You know he’s been trying to land an NHL job for two years.”
“I know.”
“But he’s not entirely wrong. People are going to question how you got the job. That’s just reality when you’re working for an organization your father coaches.”
“I know that too.”
“So prove them wrong. Do the job so well that nobody can say you didn’t earn it. Handle every crisis perfectly. Make the organization look good. That’s how you shut people up.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“Good.” Chuck claps me on the shoulder. “Just keep your head down and do the work. Results speak louder than rumors.”
He drifts off to talk to someone else, and I’m finally left alone at the bar.
I order another drink, trying to shake off the conversation. But Brett’s words keep looping through my mind.
Having family connections makes things easier. Most of us have to earn these positions the hard way.
Must be nice to have that kind of access.
People are going to question how you got the job.
This is exactly why I can’t screw up. Why every decision I make has to be perfect. Why I can’t let anything…personal feelings, attraction, whatever this thing with Masterson is…compromise my judgment.
Because the second I make a mistake, every skeptic who thinks I didn’t earn this job will have ammunition. Every person who whispered “nepotism” when I was hired will feel validated.
I’ll prove them right—that I’m unprofessional, that I didn’t earn this position, that I got it because of my last name instead of my abilities.
And my father’s position becomes complicated too. People will ask if he knew about poor decisions, if he’s covering for his son, if the organization’s judgment is compromised.
The stakes aren’t just my career. They’re his career, too. The team’s reputation. And everything I’ve worked for since I left Chicago.
All of it could come crashing down because I can’t maintain professional boundaries.
I finish my drink, say goodbye to Chuck, and hurry out of the bar.
As I drive home, my mind trips back to Vancouver and how I wanted to step between her and Masterson the second she got too close. I had no right to feel that kind of jealousy.
And then when he showed up at the hotel bar, looking at me like he could see right through this bullshit facade I have to put up any time I’m around him.
“You were jealous.”
I was. And it scared the hell out of me.
Because jealousy implies possession. It implies feeling something beyond professional concern. And most of all it implies I’m thinking about him in ways I absolutely should not be thinking about him.
Once I’m back in my apartment, I pour myself a drink even though I’ve already had two, and sit on my couch in the dark.
Tomorrow, I'll go back to the office. I'll be professional. Competent. Exactly what Bob Marshall hired me to be.
And if I see Masterson, I'll be cold. Distant.
That's the only way I prove everyone wrong.