Chapter 5
Day three started with a text message at six-forty-five in the morning on my personal phone.
I stared at it, still half-asleep, trying to figure out who had my number. Then I realized: Knox must have pulled it from the agency paperwork.
I texted back: Understood.
No response.
I made it to the penthouse by eight, which gave me an hour to prepare for whatever nightmare was about to unfold. The doorman didn’t even bother with the look this time. Just nodded and waved me through.
Knox opened the door before I could knock, which was unsettling.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I’m an hour early.”
“Early’s late.” He turned and walked back inside, leaving the door open. “Coffee’s on. You’re going to need it.”
That was comforting.
I followed him into the kitchen, poured myself a cup, and tried to assess the situation. Knox was dressed in workout clothes—black athletic shorts and a gray tank top that was soaked through with sweat. His hair was damp, pushed back from his face, and he looked like he’d been awake for hours.
“So,” I said carefully. “Virtual meeting with Kellerman and PR team.”
“Yep.”
“At nine.”
“No shit. That’s what the text said.”
“Do you need to”—I gestured vaguely at his appearance—“change?”
He looked down at himself, then back at me. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Because you’re . . .” I stopped. Regrouped. “It’s a professional call.”
He drained his coffee in one long gulp, set the mug down hard enough that I winced. “It’s my apartment. They want to lecture me, they can deal with how I look in my own fucking apartment. I’m not putting on a suit to get yelled at.”
This was going to be a disaster.
“Okay,” I said. “Where are we taking the call?”
“Office. Laptop’s already on.” He paused. “Well. It’s on. Whether the piece of shit is working is another story.”
I followed him down the hallway to the office, where the ancient laptop sat on the desk, whirring ominously. The screen was frozen on the login page, cursor blinking with the enthusiasm of someone facing their own execution.
“It does this,” Knox said. “I usually just close it and try again.”
“When was the last time you updated the software?”
He stared at me. “What?”
“Never mind.” I sat down, started clicking through menus. The operating system was at least three versions out of date, the video call software was prehistoric, and the webcam looked like it had been designed during the Cold War. “This is. . . this is really bad.”
“Can you fix it?”
“I can try.” I pulled up the settings, started adjusting. “But we need new equipment. This thing is a liability.”
“Add it to the list.”
There was a list?
I made a mental note: New laptop. Better lighting. Maybe a microphone that doesn’t sound like we’re calling from underwater.
By eight-fifty, I had the video software running and the camera positioned so it wasn’t pointing directly up Knox’s nose. Small victories.
“Test it, please,” I said, stepping back.
Knox leaned forward, squinting at the screen. His face appeared in the preview window—sharp, tired, and looking like someone who’d been dragged out of a gym and forced to sit still, which was essentially accurate.
“Looks fine,” he said.
“You’re not going to—” I stopped myself. Changing clothes was apparently not happening. “Okay. Call starts in eight minutes. Do you have notes? Talking points?”
“No.”
“Do you know what they want to discuss?”
“My suspension. My shitty attitude. The usual fucking song and dance.”
“And you’re planning to say...?”
He looked at me, expression flat. “The truth.”
That was definitely going to be a disaster.
At eight-fifty-eight, the call request came through. I clicked accept, then moved to step out of frame.
“You sit there,” Knox said.
“What?”
“You heard me.” He pointed at a chair slightly to the left of the desk, out of the camera’s range. “You’re staying.”
“I don’t think—”
“You’re my assistant, Quinn. Assist.”
I sat.
The screen flickered, and suddenly three faces appeared in a grid.
Top left: an older man in a suit, silver hair, sharp eyes.
James Kellerman, I assumed. Top right: a woman in her forties, blonde, professional, holding a tablet.
Bottom center: a younger guy, maybe thirty, wearing a headset and looking nervous.
“Andrew,” Kellerman said, his voice crisp. “Thanks for joining us.”
“Didn’t have a fucking choice,” Knox replied.
Great start.
Kellerman’s jaw tightened slightly, but he pushed forward. “You know Rebecca Martinez, PR director, and Thomas Cavenaugh, assistant to the GM. We wanted to touch base about your progress.”
“Progress on what?”
“Your suspension. Your reinstatement. Your public image.” Rebecca leaned forward, her expression carefully neutral. “The hearing is coming up in a few weeks. The league wants to see evidence that you’re taking this seriously.”
“I am taking it seriously.”
“Are you?” Thomas jumped in, his voice tight. “Because from where we’re sitting, you’ve ignored three sponsor obligations, missed two check-ins, and refused to make a public statement.”
Knox’s hands flexed on the desk. “I’ve been suspended. I’m not required to do any of this shit.”
“You’re still required to fulfill your contract,” Kellerman said. “Which includes promotional appearances and media availability.”
“Hard to do media when I’m not allowed near the fucking team.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Rebecca cleared her throat. “Let’s refocus. Andrew, the league wants to hear accountability. Remorse. A plan for how you’ll handle similar situations in the future. Can you speak to that?”
Knox stared at the camera. “I shouldn’t have fought him on the ice.”
“Good,” Rebecca said, nodding. “That’s a start. And you regret—”
“But I’d do it again.”
The screen froze. Not technically—the call was still live—but the expressions on all three faces might as well have been paused.
“Excuse me?” Kellerman’s voice dropped to something dangerous.
“You heard me. I’d do it again,” Knox repeated. His tone was calm, matter-of-fact. “Archibald targeted a rookie. He delivered a hit that was borderline legal at best, then stood there smirking while Morrison was slow to get up. Someone had to do something.”
“Someone did,” Thomas said, his voice rising. “The refs. The league. That’s their job, not yours.”
“Yeah? Well, they didn’t fucking stop him, did they?”
“So you decided to be judge, jury, and enforcer?” Rebecca’s professional mask was slipping. “You put him in the hospital, Andrew. You’re lucky he didn’t press charges.”
“He started it.”
“That doesn’t matter!” Kellerman slammed his hand on something off-screen.
“What matters is that you cost this team a key player for multiple games. You cost us playoff positioning. You cost us sponsors, media goodwill, and God knows how much money in legal fees. And now you’re sitting here telling us you’d do it again? ”
Knox’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah. I would. Because someone has to give a shit about protecting the players on this team. And clearly it’s not gonna be any of you corporate assholes sitting in your comfortable offices—”
Kellerman scoffed. “Then you’re a fucking idiot, Knox.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and final.
Knox stood up so fast his chair rolled backward and hit the wall.
“Andrew—” Rebecca started.
But he was already walking away, and a second later I heard a door slam so hard somewhere in the apartment that the desk shook.
On screen, the three of them leaned in toward one another, no one bothering to pretend this was still a formal call.
Thomas shook his head. “I don’t care what Knox’s done in the past. That doesn’t buy him anything anymore.”
“It used to.” Rebecca sighed. “That’s the problem. Everyone still treats him like it does.”
“He’s a liability,” Thomas went on. “Every suspension costs us leverage. Every outburst costs us sponsors. I don’t give a shit how many goals he scored in his prime.”
Prime.
Like it was past tense. Like he was already written off.
Rebecca nodded. “At some point the league stops caring that you were great. They only care that you’re controllable.”
Kellerman leaned back in his chair. “Which he isn’t. And frankly, I’m tired of bending over backward for a guy who won’t even fake remorse.”
There it was.
Not disappointment. Not concern.
Contempt.
They weren’t talking about a player. They were talking about a problem to be managed. An asset depreciating in real time.
Anger flared, fast and bright.
This is how they talked about him?
About Andrew Knox?
The man whose jersey I’d seen lifted into the rafters. The man I’d watched play through injuries that would’ve ended other careers. The man who had dragged mediocre teams into playoff contention through sheer force of will.
I leaned forward and adjusted the laptop so I was fully in frame.
“This is Matthew Quinn,” I said. “Mr. Knox’s assistant.”
All three of them froze.
Kellerman recovered first, blinking once before his expression smoothed into something professional and false. “Right. Yes. Hi, Matthew.”
Rebecca looked startled. Thomas looked annoyed.
“You’ve been listening,” Thomas said flatly.
“Yes, sir,” I said. I should absolutely stop talking.
“I just—Knox led the league in takeaways last season. He was second in blocked shots. His defensive zone exits are still elite, and his penalty kill time on ice was the highest on the team because—” I stopped myself.
“Because he’s still one of your best players. ”
They were silent.
“That’s not the issue,” Kellerman said carefully.
“I know.” My hands were shaking slightly. I tucked them under the desk. “I just—you said he was great. Past tense. But the numbers don’t support that. Not yet.”
Rebecca glanced at Kellerman. “This is inappropriate.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I just thought—from where I’m sitting, he’s still—” I fumbled for the right words. “He’s still performing. On the ice.”
Kellerman studied me for a long moment. “How long have you been in this role?”
“This is my first week.”
Thomas made a sound that might have been a laugh or a scoff.
“First week,” Kellerman repeated. His expression was unreadable. “And you’re already defending him.”
“I’m not—” I stopped. Was I? “I’m just clarifying. The hockey side of things.”
“The hockey side,” Kellerman said, “isn’t the problem. It’s everything else.”
“Yes, sir.”
Another beat of silence.
“We’ll table this for now,” Kellerman said. “But I want a follow-up call next week, and Knox needs to be present and cooperative. Make it happen, Matthew.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Your best had better be good enough.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Look, I get it. You’re new. But Andrew Knox is a walking PR nightmare, and if you can’t get him to play ball, this whole thing falls apart. For him and for you. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He nodded at Rebecca and Thomas. “We’re done here.”
The call ended. I closed the laptop and sat there for a moment, staring at the black screen, my heart pounding.
What the hell did I just do?
“That was interesting.”
I spun around.
Knox was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”
“You stepped in.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the call was going nowhere, and someone needed to de-escalate.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying me. “You didn’t lie.”
“No.”
“Didn’t throw me under the bus either.”
“That’s not my job.”
He pushed off the doorframe, walked closer. “I don’t need you to run interference. I can handle Kellerman and his corporate bullshit myself.”
“I know.”
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he shook his head, almost like he was surprised. “I don’t need you to clean up my messes.”
But there was no heat in his voice. No real anger. Just. . . resignation. Like he was saying it because he was supposed to, not because he meant it.
He turned to leave, then stopped. “You were right, though.”
“About what?”
“The laptop. It’s a piece of shit.” Knox glanced back at me. “Get a new one. Put it on my card. Get whatever else you need while you’re at it.”
“Okay.”
He hesitated. Just for a second.
“They’ll remember that,” he said. “Just so you know.”
I shrugged, trying to keep it light. “I’m only here for ninety days anyway.”
Knox frowned, quick and sharp, like I’d said something that landed wrong.
He didn’t respond. Just turned and walked away.
But he hadn’t yelled at me. That had to count for something.