Chapter 16
Flashpoint
Jason
Glass, steel, sky. The owner’s suite floats above the arena like a knife laid on velvet.
Floor-to-ceiling panes throw the city at me—billboards blinking, traffic veining red, a winter moon cut thin enough to bleed.
My jaw aches from holding my mouth shut.
Security eases the door closed behind me with a click that sounds like a lock.
Nolan Blackwood doesn’t stand. He never has to.
He’s a perfect silhouette against the skyline—silver hair, dark suit, a watch that could pay a rookie’s mortgage.
A single tumbler of something expensive sweats on the glass table beside him.
The TV in the corner plays our win on loop without sound; a slow-motion version of me ghosts across the screen, five-hole tuck, stick raised. It feels like someone else’s life.
“Jason.” He says my name like a ledger entry—neutral, inevitable.
“Coach said you wanted me.” My voice stays even. I plant my feet on the ridiculously soft carpet and keep my hands where he can see them, like this is a traffic stop and not a conversation with the man who signs my checks.
Nolan gestures at the opposite chair. I don’t sit. Sitting is for negotiations. I’m not here to negotiate.
Down on the ice, the crew drives a Zamboni in neat, obedient laps. I think about how clean the surface looks after you scrape the evidence away. I think about Riley’s badge flashing red. My molars grind.
“We’ll be brief,” Nolan says. His reflection looks at mine in the glass; neither of us blink. “There are optics to manage.”
“Then manage me,” I say. The words feel like stepping onto fresh ice—slick, no take-backs. “Not my trainer.”
One silver brow tilts. “Your trainer.” He lets the pronoun hang just long enough to make a point. “You’re aware of the Code of Conduct.”
“I’m aware of results.” I bite down on the rest. Not yet. Not until he makes me earn it.
Nolan folds his hands. He has pianist’s fingers for a man who prefers other people to do the playing.
“Security will walk you to media in ten. You’ll smile, you’ll point at logos, you’ll talk about team chemistry and discipline.
Tomorrow you’ll stay off brand row and you will not be photographed within six feet of Ms. Lane. ”
Her last name in his mouth makes something mean uncurl in my chest. “Ms. Lane pulled a kid back from a groin tear in ten days. Reduced soft-tissue incidents by eighteen percent. My zone entries are up since she took over, my recovery windows are tighter, and I haven’t missed a game for maintenance since July.
If you care about optics, put those on a billboard. ”
His eyes flick, a tiny acknowledgment I file away.
He reaches for the tumbler and doesn’t drink.
“And if I care about eight figures in sponsor commitments that come with morality clauses?” He glances at the silent TV where the logo wall glows behind my frozen celebration. “Optics, Jason. Not outcomes.”
I plant a palm on the back of the empty chair to keep from pacing. The leather gives under my hand with a quiet protest. “Outcomes built the optics you sell.”
“You’ve been useful to me because you win hockey games.” He sets the glass down with surgical precision, as if any spill would be a confession. “I assume you want to continue.”
Useful lands like a slash across my shins. I picture Riley’s clipboard, the neat rows, the way her hands never shake until she’s alone. The room tilts and rights itself. “I want the people who make winning possible to be treated like they matter.”
“Everyone matters,” he says—the kind of thing only people with private elevators say. “Some are easier to replace.”
The Zamboni makes another lap. My jaw locks so hard I hear a pop in my ear. I lean into the ache. “So talk to me. Say what you’re not saying.”
“Code of Conduct, Section Twelve.” He recites it like a bedtime story for a child who won’t sleep: “Supervisory personnel shall avoid relationships—perceived, implied, or actual—that could compromise professional judgment. Trainers fall under supervisory personnel.” His fingers steeple. “Perceived. Implied. Or actual.”
“I heard the words. I’m giving you numbers.”
He tips his chin—permission to hang myself with my own rope.
“Soft-tissue incidence, down eighteen percent after she reworked mobility. Return-to-play on lower-body strains, twelve days under league median. Hydration and sleep-tracking compliance at ninety-two percent, which is a miracle with this room of children.” I don’t blink.
“You’re paying for performance. She’s why you’re getting it. ”
He doesn’t argue data; men like Nolan don’t argue numbers when they can outprice them.
“We’re paying for a product,” he says, “and protecting its brand. Sponsors have clawbacks if we violate moral-turpitude and franchise-integrity clauses. That’s eight figures of potential exposure if certain images suggest…
”—a thin smile—“improper fraternization.”
Improper fraternization sounds like a Victorian disease.
“Images suggest whatever cameras are aimed to suggest.” I can still feel the red light winking, my hand hovering near Riley’s elbow, the brand wall glowing like stained glass.
“If this is about optics, fix the frame, not the people doing their jobs.”
“Frames are cheaper to fix when you remove the inconvenient subject,” he says mildly. “We could place Ms. Lane on leave. Quietly. Bring in a temp from our affiliate. Cycle the story in forty-eight hours.”
The floor tips; I pin it with my palm on the chair back. “You remove her, performance drops. That’s not hypothetical.”
“We would cope,” he says, and the we isn’t me. “And we would avoid fines. The League can fine for conduct detrimental. I don’t believe in paying for lessons twice.”
“Fine me,” I say, the words faster than prudence. “You want a zero-tolerance headline? Make it about me. Put a muzzle on the narrative without sacrificing the one person in this building who keeps bodies from breaking.”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You’d like to be the martyr?”
“I’d like the truth to matter more than speculation.” The glass throws our reflections together; for a second I can pretend we’re on the same side of it. “You know what she is. Ask Coach. Ask Adams. Ask the room.”
“I know what you are,” he says, and the compliment is barbed.
“An asset. One who occasionally confuses courage with control. Tell me, Jason—if the choice were between a public apology, a fine, and a short suspension for conduct, versus a quiet staff change no one outside our walls will remember in a week—what choice do you think maximizes wins?”
Both answers are wrong. My tongue tastes metal anyway. “The one where we don’t punish the person doing her job.”
He studies me like a stock chart, looking for trend lines. “Section Twelve exists so the team doesn’t have to adjudicate feelings,” he says, cool as the skyline. “It exists so I don’t have to factor your pulse into my balance sheet.”
“My pulse is why you have a balance sheet,” I snap, then throttle back. “You want a solution that satisfies code? Keep doors open. Double-staff treatments. Cameras invited. Distance measurable on paper and nonexistent on the ice.”
His eyes narrow a fraction—the first hint I’ve given him math he can spend. He taps the tumbler once. “And the images that already exist?”
“Sell the truth harder than the rumor.”
His phone lights the table between us, the screen bleeding white across the glass. He glances at the name and hits speaker.
“Glen,” a woman’s voice floods the room, bright with the kind of friendliness that bills by the quarter hour. “You’ve got me and Legal on. And Jason—hello. Congratulations on the win.”
“Evening, Marla,” he says. Nolan never uses last names. He doesn’t have to.
“I’ll be blunt so we can all get to bed: our board reviewed tonight’s media cycle. The bench-adjacent footage is already trending. We can’t sit on this. If the… trainer issue isn’t resolved promptly, Vectra will suspend in-arena signage and withhold the Q3 activation.”
Trainer issue. She says it like a squeaky wheel, not a person. My grip tightens on the chairback until the leather creaks. “Resolved how?” I ask, voice flat.
A micro-pause, calculating whether to pretend I’m not here. “Hi, Jason.” Brighter. “This is really a matter for ownership.”
“I’m asking a technical question. Define resolved.”
“Optically neutralized,” a second voice cuts in—male, pleasantly bland. Legal. “No ongoing proximity that could suggest inappropriate conduct. Preferably a personnel reassignment to eliminate risk.”
Reassignment. They mean removal. They mean Riley. I put my free hand in my pocket before it makes a fist.
“We’re exploring options that satisfy Code Twelve while maintaining performance,” Nolan says, eyes on the skyline instead of me.
“Of course,” Marla purrs. “We adore performance. But we also adore family-friendly brand alignment. Our brand lives on your dasher boards. If a narrative suggests impropriety between a star and a staffer, it compromises both brands. We have morality language for a reason.”
My ghost raises a stick on the muted TV, logo wall burning like stained glass. Just out of frame, she’s doing her job. “Your brand also lives on wins,” I say. “Pull signage and the building still sells out if we’re winning. You want the lights on? Keep the people who make winning possible.”
Another pause. I can hear her smile through the line. “You’re very charismatic, Jason. That’s part of the equation. But this is simple risk math. If the story is true, we have a problem. If it isn’t, you should have no trouble making a change to demonstrate that it isn’t.”
It’s an ultimatum dressed as compromise. My teeth find the sore spot in my jaw. “Or we tell the truth and stop pretending a woman doing her job is scandalous.”
Legal exhales into the mic, a gentle scold. “Let’s avoid gendered rhetoric. We’re speaking about policy.”