Chapter 1 #3
Joanna introduces them without pretending this is an agreement. Diana Alvarez, executive director. Monica Serrano, operations coordinator.
Diana’s dark hair is secured away from her face. She sits very still while Charles explains that the Breakers are developing possible return conditions and would like to discuss a supervised placement.
She watches him finish.
“Would like to discuss,” she repeats. “Or intends to announce?”
“Discuss,” Joanna says before Charles can answer. “No announcement. No implied commitment.”
Monica adjusts her tortoiseshell glasses and looks down at a document. “We will need that distinction in writing.”
Charles nods. “Of course.”
“The program prohibits checking and fighting,” Diana says. “Our volunteers teach positioning, equipment fit, body control, and competitive play without deliberate collision. A placement cannot require us to alter that curriculum.”
“No one is asking you to,” Charles says.
Diana’s gaze shifts toward the camera. Toward me, though there is a screen and a conference table between us.
“What does Mr. D’Amico believe the placement is for?”
The room waits.
“Team requirement,” I say.
“That is who requires it. I asked what it is for.”
I look at Joanna, then Charles. Neither offers an answer.
“Conduct work,” I say.
Diana remains still. “And the children?”
“What about them?”
“Are they participants in their own program, or scenery that proves you completed conduct work?”
My taped hand rests on the table. She looks at it once, then back at my face. There is no admiration in the glance. It is the same practical check Irene gives an injury before deciding whether it affects the work.
“I wouldn’t use them,” I say.
Monica turns a page. “The team’s communications department requested general information about filming permissions this afternoon.”
Laura’s head lifts. “I asked what releases already existed. I did not request access.”
“That is why I wrote down the wording,” Monica says.
Laura accepts the correction with a short nod.
Diana says, “A child cannot be the background in somebody else’s apology.”
Nobody reaches for the sentence to make it softer.
Charles redirects toward liability standards, supervision, and documentation.
Diana answers each point with a condition.
The nonprofit can refuse the placement. It can end the placement.
Cameras cannot arrive without separate permission.
Michael cannot be alone with a child. Existing staff retain authority.
The team does not own the curriculum, footage, branding, volunteer schedule, or any future city partnership.
Monica adds that required hours would need defined tasks and written evaluation standards. Parent concerns will be documented whether or not the board approves him.
“What would approval depend on?” I ask.
Diana looks at me again. “Whether your presence can serve the program without asking the program to serve your image.”
“I don’t need an image.”
Laura’s tablet is still open to the clip of me pulling free from an official.
Diana does not point that out. “Then the written proposal should be simple.”
Charles asks when they will decide.
“After we receive terms,” Monica says. “After the board reviews the safeguarding impact. After parents receive accurate information. Not tonight.”
The call ends without approval.
Charles closes his folder. “The return plan will include conduct work. The proposed community component will be submitted to Ms. Alvarez’s organization, with alternatives identified if they refuse.”
“So I’m suspended until she says yes.”
“No,” Joanna says. “Your team discipline and the program’s decision are separate. Do not make her responsible for the suspension.”
Charles confirms that league eligibility, team clearance, medical status, conduct work, and placement are different parts of the plan. The distinctions keep multiplying. None of them give me a place to stand.
Vincent waits outside the conference room when we finish. He looks at the envelope in my hand, then at my taped knuckles.
“What did they say?”
“That I’m a liability.”
His mouth tightens.
I keep walking before he can disagree.
The hallway overlooks the dark rink. Cleaning crews move through the lower bowl, collecting cups and abandoned signs from beneath the seats. On the scoreboard, the final result is gone. Only the Breakers logo remains.
My phone keeps filling with the fight.
Some messages call me loyal. Some call me an idiot. One clip has the crowd’s roar turned louder than the broadcast. Another freezes on the official’s face as I pull free.
My suspension paperwork bends where I grip it.
For years, there has always been an answer when somebody asks why I belong on a professional roster. I go where the game gets ugly. I take the hit. I make sure nobody touches our skilled players without seeing me come over the boards next.
Patrick saw me come.
He said I never looked.
I stand above the empty rink with my hand throbbing inside Irene’s tape and the proposed return plan folded against my palm.
The team wants conduct work. An independent program may refuse to let me through its doors.
The league has put pattern in writing, and Charles has put a price beside my absence.
The role that kept me employed is now the evidence they might use to end it.
I do not know what is left when I stop being good at the one thing everybody taught me to do.