FIFTEEN
HAYDEN
BOSTON
DECEMBER
“Firstly, we just want to say how sorry we are that this happened to Emerald. We feel awful. Truly.”
Doug Murphy has been the General Manager for the Boston Bullies for five years. I’ve seen him rant and rave with an intensity that might be intimidating if I didn’t suspect he was part leprechaun, given his stature.
He compensates for his height with ego. His father owns the team and gave him the job right out of college.
Now his voice shakes as he offers sympathy that sounds more fearful than genuine.
When I pulled into the parking lot, Ruby asked to see it, so I drove us by the exact spot where I found Emerald—no longer marked as a crime scene.
But in my mind, that place will always be haunted.
I haven’t told Tim or Linda, but I told Ruby I watched the footage. She looked at me, eyes glassy, and said she wouldn’t be able to see it. Neither would Mom and Dad—it would break them.
It’s broken me. But I won’t allow myself to fall apart. Not now. Not when I’m about to fight for Emerald.
“You look like a berserker heading into battle,” Ruby said as we walked through the front office doors .
“Maybe I am,” I shrugged.
Maybe that’s the reason for Doug’s wobbly voice and why his eyes won’t hold my gaze as they keep darting to Coach Peter, who nods in stiff agreement.
It’s been two days since I’ve been in this arena.
Two days since I found my wife beaten and bloody in the snow.
And the man who did it still hasn’t been found.
Emerald is in a private room with an officer outside, as the detectives promised. When awake, she uses the whiteboard and hand signals to communicate.
She’s in pain most of the time—her ribs and jaw are the worst of it. She struggles to breathe and can’t eat solid food, relying on a liquid diet while doctors monitor her jaw. Too much movement or shifting could misalign it while healing, possibly forcing them to break it again.
The broken teeth will have to wait until her jaw heals, but goddamn does it break my heart that her crooked ones were the ones that broke.
The footage flashes in my mind. I don’t push it away now; I control it by breathing through rage and grief, channeling energy into action.
It’s not only the external injuries. Something is broken inside her mind, too. Without sedatives, she can’t sleep fully through the night, either from the pain or the nightmares she’s been having.
“Common with victims of assault.”
And I know the doctors and nurses mean so well when they say it. It’s meant to soothe us, to know that this is all very normal and that they’ve seen it before.
But this is Emerald, my wife, my heart. Every attempt at comfort from doctors and nurses feels empty. I search desperately for words to steady my fear, realizing there might never be any that will.
Emerald is wary of men. A male doctor came into the room to check on her. She completely froze, eyes wide, heart rate machine beeping rapidly. Pretending I had a question, I asked him about having only women staff treat her, and thankfully, he understood.
And despite trying to keep things as insular and private as possible, the story of Emerald’s attack has gripped the sports world.
A growing community on social media shares similar stories—across hockey, basketball, soccer, football, and even golf. WAGs have been expressing the misogynistic abuse they face from their husband’s fans, which is incredibly similar to the messages Emerald has received.
While some people were still online saying horrible things about Emerald, many more were rallying around her in support. Even DeMar and Denise have offered support, Denise sharing that it was similar for her in the beginning, but she’s a respected doctor in this city, which gave her a shield.
Who wants to speak badly about someone they might need to be treated by one day?
The love and support have definitely helped Emerald. Every flat surface in the hospital room is covered in flowers and baskets from WAGs, old teammates, friends, and authors she’s worked with. Each new delivery and the kind words accompanying it help ease the tension from Emerald’s eyes.
Since she can’t eat the fruit and chocolate in the baskets, she insisted that the nurses and doctors caring for her have them.
My wife.
“Your niceties are noted, gentlemen, but we’ve already taken enough time away from being by Emerald’s side as she recovers from this vicious, preventable assault on these grounds.”
Ruby’s voice slices through the room, halting two of the organization’s most powerful men. Doug and Peter gape at her, stunned, eyebrows raised and shifting awkwardly as if unsure how to respond.
No one speaks to them like that.
But they’ve never encountered Ruby Osgood before.
Pulling out two folders from her bag, she hands one to each of them.
When they open them and see the contents, they share an ‘oh shit’ look.
“Forgive me,” Ruby smiles, all teeth, no warmth. “This is my first time representing an athlete, but is it common practice to sexualize your players and encourage the objectification of them to sell tickets to your games?”
You could hear a pin drop in this office.
The files Ruby handed them are screenshots from the Boston Bullies social media page.
No way they can deny with the proof in front of their faces, from their own mouths.
Screenshot after screenshot shows their posts—oversexualized captions, comments verging on harassment, and the team’s responses that feel dangerously encouraging.
Doug Murphy’s face is as pale as the crisp dress shirt he’s wearing.
Coach Peter looks annoyed, giving the General Manager a sharp side-eye.
Ruby looks like the cat that ate the canary, completely in control.
And my eyes just trailed around the room where I sat over a year ago, Emerald next to me, Rick on my other side, as I officially signed my contract with the Bullies.
I kept her hand in mine as I scribbled my signature on the dotted line, my grin wide enough to split my face.
I looked at Emerald, the one I was doing this all for.
While she looked genuinely proud of me, her eyes were sad.
I wrote that off as the bittersweet feeling she expressed when we spoke about the trade.
She said she would miss Minnesota, but Boston could be a new adventure.
Now I can see that her tone was more like that of someone comforting themselves .
Rick had been in my ear, saying how this was just the beginning, we were going to skyrocket into all-stardom. He was asking Emerald if she was ready for a beach house in Malibu, which she had just smiled tightly at, uncharacteristically shy.
I just felt good about being able to provide Emerald with the life she deserves.
Without any of Hal Sawyer’s help.
I was signing away our happiness and home for four million dollars, and I couldn’t see it then.
That’s the thought that won’t let go.
Why did it take this horrible attack on Emerald for me to finally realize she wasn’t happy here? Because it’s all clear to me now. Her reluctance to put down job roots. The frequent calls home to Mom, Dad, and Ruby. The way she cried after saying goodbye on the phone.
How she clung to me when I was home, or jumped eagerly to come with me when I had to go on the road to the Midwest for games.
Why can I only see it now after the worst has already happened?
I don’t know if I’ll ever get an answer I’m satisfied with, and that will be my burden to bear. Along with not having believed Emerald when she showed me those awful messages that I dismissed as petty jealousy .
Because that’s what Rick said.
He is my greatest regret and my most unforgivable sin of all, listening to him and regurgitating his bullshit to my wife. I will never forgive myself for the day I signed my name to Rick Fox. Not as long as I live and breathe.
“We...uh, we don’t really handle any of the social media—”
“Your family owns this franchise, Mr. Murphy,” Ruby cuts Doug off, shrugging her shoulders. “Everything in this team seems to flow in and out of this office. You’re telling me you didn’t know what was going on under your roof? That reads incompetence.”
God, she’s good. Her asking me the rundown on what I know about the owner makes sense now.
“You’re right. We’ve been so focused on the loss streak,” Coach speaks up then, meeting my eyes for a brief moment. The way he stresses the words ‘loss streak’ twists my stomach. “That we haven’t been as watchful of what our social media coordinator has been posting.”
Both men turn to me, their eyes practically boring into my skull as if they’re saying. This is your fault. And as I think about it now, over the last months of our up and down playing, it’s the same thing they’ve been doing.
The way the focus always shifted from one player to the next was like a rotating target.
I was the scapegoat this month. I remember last month was DeMar, and Lou was before that.
The words and those twin disappointed glares create pressure, twist your mind, and make you either play harder or crumble into dust.
Lou crumbled and is now riding the bench.
DeMar didn’t seem that affected by it, which is probably why they shifted over to me.
My name would pop up from the coach during post-game interviews when they spoke about who wasn't carrying their weight or who needed improvement.
I thought it was a genuine concern for my playing, the way a coach should be. I didn’t want to crumble, so I focused all of my energy on hockey.
I can’t fail. Emerald worked too hard for us to get here. How could I fail her? How could I deserve to be with her if I couldn’t do the one thing I’m good at?
“After this meeting, we’ll schedule a meeting with her to discuss further,” Doug smiles placidly, as if he’s just solved the crisis. “We’ve just been trying to make sure our loyal fans stay loyal in the face of these disappointing weeks.”
“It’s a team sport, sweetheart. You’re not the entire team.”