Chapter 11
DANNY
The loss to Arizona hurts like a junk punch.
We’re better than them. Everyone knows it. But tonight we played like shit. There were a lot of sloppy passes, stupid penalties, and defensive breakdowns that belong in a fucking beer league, not the NHL.
When the final buzzer blares at the end of the game, I stand at center ice watching their team celebrate like they just won the Stanley Cup. Meanwhile, our bench looks like someone died.
This is the kind of game that pisses everyone off for days.
In the locker room after, Coach keeps the end of game speech short. “It was a bad game. Shake it off. We’ll review tape tomorrow. Get some rest.”
The second he’s gone, stands up from the bench. “Let’s go get a drink. I need to forget that disaster.”
“It’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than one drink,” Jack says.
“I’m down,” Cam says, pulling out his phone. “I’ll tell Logan to meet us. That place at the marina?”
“Yeah,” Carter says. “Perfect.”
I’m pulling off my gear when Tate looks over. “You coming?”
“Yeah. Give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you there.”
I shower fast, change into jeans and a hoodie, and head out after them. The tunnel between the locker room and the parking garage is mostly empty. There are just a few staff members packing up equipment. A maintenance guy rounds the corner, pushing his cart toward the rink.
That’s when I see him.
Noah’s standing near the wall, tablet in hand, but he’s not looking at it. He’s staring at his phone with a tight jaw. Tension shadows his expression.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks up, and surprise flickers across his face before the professional mask slides back into place.
“Masterson. Tough game tonight.”
“Yeah. We played like shit.” I shift my bag to my other shoulder. “You here to make sure I don’t do anything stupid after?”
“What?” His brow furrows.
“The guys are hitting a bar. I figured maybe Marshall sent you to babysit again. Make sure I stay in line.”
“I wasn’t sent to Vancouver to babysit. I was sent to check on you.”
“Right. Check on me.” I lean against the wall. “So? Are you gonna be checking on me tonight too?”
“No.”
I can’t lie. My heart dips a little in my chest at that.
His phone buzzes. He glances at it, and that tension in his jaw gets worse.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Fine.” He types something quickly then shoves the phone in his pocket. “You should go. Your teammates are probably waiting.”
“They can wait a minute.” I step closer toward him. Something’s off. He’s more tense than usual, distracted in a way I haven’t seen before. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, Masterson. Just dealing with some work issues.”
“At ten o’clock on a game night?”
“PR doesn’t have office hours.” His phone buzzes again. He pulls it out, reads whatever message just came through, and his expression gets even more pinched. “I have to go.”
“Noah—”
“Have a good night. Try to stay out of trouble.”
He walks away before I can say anything else, and I’m left standing in the tunnel wondering what the hell just happened.
At the bar, a place called O’Reilly’s, the mood’s better than the locker room was. The guys loosen up, laughing about the bad plays instead of lamenting about them.
I’m nursing my second beer, half-listening to Jack’s story about something that happened in practice, when I feel it.
Someone’s eyes on me.
I turn, casually sipping my beer as my eyes dart left and right. They land on a guy in his forties wearing an Arizona jersey. And he’s drunk enough that he sways and loses his balance when he stands up from his table.
He’s staring right at me.
“Shit,” Carter mutters, saying exactly what my mind is yelling right now. “Here we go.”
The guy stumbles over, then stops about two feet away. He’s close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath and clothes.
“You’re Masterson, right?” He says, waving his glass in front of me.
“Yeah,” I say warily.
“The guy who beat up that fan. At the charity thing.” He grins like this is the funniest thing he’s ever said. “I read all about it. That guy probably got paid, huh? Your team’s-s loaded. Bet they s-settled for a fortune just to make it go away.”
I put my beer down. “You should head back to your table now.”
“Why? I’m just making conversation.” He sways closer. “You know, maybe I should piss-s you off too. Get myself a payday. S-seems like easy money.”
“Walk away,” Carter says, standing up. “Now.”
The guy ignores him and keeps his eyes on me. “What’s the matter? Big tough hockey player can’t handle a little trash talk?”
“I can handle it fine. Just giving you a chance to walk away before you do something stupid.”
“Something stupid?” He shoves my chest. Not hard, but enough that people around us notice. “Like this?”
I don’t move or react. I just stand there.
“Come on.” He shoves me again, harder. “Hit me. I could use the money.”
Little white lights appear in my periphery. Cameras are recording every bit of this bullshit. It’s about to be everywhere, and I have about ten seconds to decide how this all plays out.
I hear Noah’s voice in my head.
You should have de-escalated. Done anything other than put your hands on someone.
I take a breath and step back instead of forward.
“Not worth it.”
“What?” The guy shoves me a third time, and I see the flash of phone cameras. “You s-scared? Pussy. Come on, hit me. S-show everyone what a tough guy you are.”
Two security guys in black shirts cut through the crowd, heading in our direction.
The drunk guy sees them coming and shoves me one more time. Fucking asshole. “That’s what I thought. Big s-shot hockey player, too chickenshit to—”
Security grabs him and pulls him toward the exit. He’s still yelling, still trying to get to me, but I just stand there, watching and shaking my head.
Don’t move. Don’t react. Don’t give anyone a reason to make this into something it’s not.
Carter nudges me. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“That took serious restraint, bro.”
“Yeah, well. I learned my lesson the first time.”
Tate appears, phone in hand. “Someone already posted it to Twitter and tagged the team account.”
“Great,” I groan. “How bad did they twist it?”
“No, actually...look. Not twisted at all.” He shows me his screen.
The video’s already got a few hundred views. In less than a freaking minute. Christ, social media is unreal. But this time, someone filmed the whole thing and caught the guy shoving me, me stepping back, and then security removing him.
The caption says:
Masterson showing serious growth. Drunk fan tries to provoke him and he walks away. Respect.
Comments pop up on my screen. Shockingly, most of them positive…people saying I did the right thing, that I’ve learned from the Puck Fest incident, that this is what maturity looks like.
“See?” Tate grins. “Good PR.”
I grin and pull out my own phone to check the Raptors’ official account. They haven’t reposted it yet, but they will. And when they do, Noah will see it.
Because Noah sees everything.
An hour later, I’m in my truck heading home when my phone buzzes in the console. The text notification from Noah flashes on my screen and I hit the screen to listen.
Saw the video. Well done.
I hit the reply button on the screen.
Remembered what you said. About de-escalating.
You’re learning.
I chuckle and reply.
Does that mean you’re proud of me?
I wait. Five minutes. Ten.
No response.
I grit my teeth, white-knuckle the steering wheel, and drive home, deflated.
Because for a second, I thought maybe this would be different. Maybe showing restraint, proving I learned something, would crack through that professional wall he keeps between us.
Instead, I get two texts and silence.
Same as always. He never lets himself take things to the next level. Must be an occupational hazard.
I pull into my building’s garage, kill the engine, and trudge toward the elevator.
Noah was tense tonight when I saw him. Distracted. Something was bothering him, and he wouldn’t tell me what.
Squaring my shoulders, I know why. We’re not friends. We’re not anything beyond PR director and player.
No matter how much I want that to change.