Chapter 28 #2
The producer hesitates, weighing difference between salacious and solid. I help him.
“You put that ultrasound up and you become the story we’re here to condemn,” I say. “You blur it, you still normalize it. Or you run tape of me doing suicides until I puke and logs that prove we ran procedure by the book. One makes you part of the problem. One makes you the outlet that didn’t.”
He glances at the stage manager, then back at us. “We can lead with the rehab visuals,” he concedes. “But online needs a hook.”
“Your hook is accountability,” Riley answers. “Harassment hotline on screen. Our request that you blur any previously published medical images, even if you weren’t the first to run them. Make a standard. Be first at that.”
Something in his expression shifts, calculation tilting toward pride. He nods, small. “Alright. Rehab tape, logs, hotline lower third. No ultrasound. No clinic name.” He extends a hand across the table like we’re closing a deal on a car.
I don’t shake yet. “Chyron language,” I say. “We approve it before we sit.”
He signals to a graphics op, who wheels over with a tablet. JASON MADDOX: SPEAKING OUT AGAINST STAFF HARASSMENT blares in draft-red, with a crawl: INDEPENDENT OVERSIGHT CONFIRMED—REHAB LOGS AVAILABLE.
“Lose the hero framing,” Riley says, dry. “Change it to Jason and Riley speak to boundaries and process. And the crawl: Independent oversight confirmed; harassment of staff is unacceptable.”
The op edits, fingers flying. We watch the words morph into a version we can live with.
Julia finally offers her hand. “Guardrails locked,” she says. The producer shakes like he understands it’s an oath.
The stage manager steps in with two wireless lav mics and a tray of battery packs.
“Mic checks,” she says, efficient. She clips Riley’s mic with practiced gentleness, asking with her eyes before her hands move; she does the same for me and tucks the pack under my jacket.
The tape pulls once on my collarbone and I anchor my breath to the small sting.
“Two minutes,” someone calls from the booth.
The cameras adjust; the red tally lights blink their pre-flight.
The rehab footage rolls silent on a preview monitor—me skating lines, a timecode in the corner; a clipboard in the frame with the independent’s initials; Riley in the background, professional, distant, the way she’s always been when we were doing it right.
I look at her. She meets my eyes. No script. Just the rules we made and the promise we keep.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Together,” she says, and the mics are live.
The tally lights go red and the room rearranges itself into a version of truth that fits inside ten minutes. The host faces our camera with that calm-lake expression anchors use when the water underneath is all undertow.
“Tonight,” she says, “Jason Maddox and Riley Lane join us to talk about boundaries, harassment, and what comes next.” The lower third we approved slides on: JASON it listens.
The host tries the ultrasound angle without saying the word. “There are images circulating—”
Riley doesn’t blink. “Images that should never have been public,” she says. “We’re asking every outlet to blur or remove them and to consider the precedent they set when they normalize medical theft.”
I meet the lens. “If you’ve shared them,” I add, “consider unsharing. Consider the human you don’t see when you hit send. Consider calling the hotline if you’ve witnessed staff being harassed. That’s how you help.”
Across the monitor, the crawl repeats: REPORT HARASSMENT: 1-800-*. The producer gives the graphics op a tiny thumbs up. For once a lower third feels like a shield, not a cudgel.
The host wraps with a softball that could become sandpaper if I mishandle it. “Do you regret anything?”
“Yes,” I say. The pen in Julia’s hand goes still. “I regret every time I mistook silence for safety. I regret not standing next to Riley sooner.” I let the last part land. “I don’t regret loving her.”
The segment clock blinks down. Ten minutes somehow become enough.
“Tight,” the producer says into his headset as the tally lights drop to black. “We’re clear.”
Mics come off, tape tugging hair, the room exhaling its TV self. Off camera, the host leans in, voice softer without the red light. “For what it’s worth,” she says to Riley, “I started in sports. I know how halls can be. I’ll push to blur anything we’re responsible for.”
“Thank you,” Riley says, professional and human at once.
Julia is already there with a thumb drive and a list. “Per terms,” she tells the producer, “we need segment files and raw of their appearance within the hour. And I want confirmation in writing that your team will blur prior on-site archives of leaked medical images. If it’s a policy change, better. ”
He nods, chastened and a little energized by the idea of being first at something decent. “I’ll make the case.” He signals the graphics op. “Draft the blur policy memo. Send it to legal. Put the hotline footer on the web cut.”
I shake the stage manager’s hand because she treated Riley like a person and not a prop. “Thanks,” I say. She shrugs like it’s nothing. It isn’t.
In the corner, the preview monitor loops the rehab tape—cold facts that still somehow manage to feel warm compared to the last twenty-four hours.
My phone starts its buzz cycle again—pings stacked on pings.
I don’t look yet. I look at Riley, who looks back at me like we just held a line we didn’t know could hold.
Julia steps between us and the corridor with a clipboard like a shield. “Owner in the green room,” she says under her breath. “He brought counsel. He’s calculating.”
Of course he is. The studio door swings inward before she finishes the sentence. Nolan’s silhouette cuts against the hallway light, all angles and money and intent.
Show time, again.
Nolan enters like a cold front, counsel at his elbow, tie knotted so tight it looks like it’s choking the room. He doesn’t offer a hand. He offers a verdict.
“Decent segment,” he says, which in billionaire means you didn’t crater the valuation. His gaze flicks to Riley, then to Julia, then finally to me. “Our position is unchanged: we protect the franchise.”
“Great,” I say. “Start with protecting the people who make it run.” I step so I’m not between Riley and the door and not in front of her either—flanking, the way you cover a partner on a rush. “You want calm? Put it in writing.”
Nolan’s counsel tilts a legal pad toward me. “What specifically are you asking for, Mr. Maddox?”
“Anti-harassment enforcement with teeth,” I say, counting on my fingers because I want the cameras that inevitably leak from these rooms to catch the list. “One: a written policy that names harassment of staff—online, on premises, off premises—as grounds for revoking media credentials and access. Two: clear staff-player relationship rules, not vague rumor nets. Define supervision and evaluation so we all know the line. Three: a non-retaliation clause.” I nod toward Riley.
“No demotions in practice. No ‘temporary’ reassignments that become permanent because somebody’s nervous.
If there’s a review, it’s in defined days with defined scope.
Device reviews limited to team-issued hardware.
Four: a reporting channel that bypasses anyone with a conflict, and an obligation to post the results. ”
Julia is already writing, pen a metronome. “Five,” she adds without looking up. “A training for media and arena security on staff boundaries. It’s not just players who need to hear this.”
Riley doesn’t step forward, but she doesn’t step back. “And six,” she says, voice even. “A restoration clause. If the review finds no violation, my duties and access are reinstated immediately, with back pay and a public correction.”
The room does that thing rooms do when men with money realize they’re not the only ones dictating terms. Counsel’s pen stills. Nolan’s mouth tightens. He looks at Julia like she could be bought and at me like I won’t be.
“Some of that is reasonable,” he says at last. “Some is aspirational.”
“Reasonable becomes policy,” Julia says, sliding a printed template from her folder like a magic trick. “Aspirational becomes a pilot program we announce in partnership with the league. You get to be first. Press likes first.”
Nolan’s eyes narrow. He smells leverage even when it’s gift-wrapped. “What do I get in return?”