CHAPTER 47 TALLULAH HARD NUMBERS #2
“In the final ten years of your coaching, one hundred and three hockey players across Canada's professional league exhibited signs of substance abuse. This includes drug and alcohol rehabilitation check-ins, driving under the influence, mental health episodes—”
“What?”
“Thirty-five-point-nine percent of those were active players on your roster.”
He was genuinely confused. “What does this have to do with me?”
“Thirty-seven players,” I said, my words slow to keep my focus on him and not the camera. “If you dig deeper, the number blooms. Fifty-five of those one hundred-and-three at some point were signed to you. Fifty-five—that’s over fifty percent.”
“What are you saying?” he gritted out.
“What do you believe leads to these kinds of behaviors, sir?”
“I don’t know.” His jaw clenched from the slight in my ‘sir.’ “What my players did on their off-time wasn’t my responsibility. I was their coach. Not their mother—”
“In a pool of two-hundred hockey players during your final ten years, players were thirty-two percent more likely to ask for immediate transfers within their first six months of joining your team—”
“What is this?” he demanded, conscientious of the camera, of our audience. “This has nothing to do with me—”
“This has everything to do with you,” I interjected, firm. “I’ve interviewed numerous Olympians who’ve anonymously shared their—”
“Anonymous?” he rebuffed. “Anonymous?”
“There are reports of physical, emotional, and psychological abuse—the numbers clearly show a pattern of—”
“Turn off the camera,” he snarled. “We’re done.”
The room was abuzz, tension heavy in the air. We couldn’t be done—the interview didn’t prove anything yet. It wasn’t good enough. There was nothing beyond Tomasini dodging questions.
I stood up when he did. “You have nothing to say to these allegations?”
“Allegations?” he scoffed, fury laced under his words. “You’re a fucking kid—do you know what civil liabilities means? I’ll throw your ass in court, you’ll choke on a law book—”
“I have first-hand accounts, I have proof—”
He whirled around, getting in my space. “You don’t have shit.” I felt like a bug under his shoe, something to squash, something not worth his time. His nostrils flared. “You. Have. Nothing.”
Oh my god—Tomasini was going to leave. Panic welled up inside of me. This was a disaster. I failed.
“I know why you’re doing this,” he told me, yanking his jacket from the back of the chair. “This is for your boyfriend. Because he couldn’t tell me to my fucking face—” He shoved his jacket on. “You think I’m an idiot?”
“Tomasini—”
“I want everyone’s name in this room!” he roared, going for the door. “My lawyer will be in contact!”
Anxiety raced under my skin, leaving me dizzy. What would he do to Nick? I didn’t just fail, I put Nick in real danger. I had to think of something, I had to think of anything—
“I crunched more numbers, sir!” I squeaked. “Your percentages are nothing compared to Bud Weckhorst’s!”
Tomasini grabbed the door handle, but it was like I shocked him with a taser. He jerked back. “What?”
“Most of the articles on rampant bullying, misconduct, and inter-personal violence are attributed to Bud Weckhorst.” I gulped. “Statistically speaking, he was worse to hockey players than traumatic brain injuries.”
His mouth fell open. He was stunned speechless.
“I don’t think you’re just a villain, that’s a lazy way to look at the numbers.” I said, anger tightening my words. “You’re a symptom, Tomasini. Another cog in the wheel. What I want to know is, what did Bud Weckhorst do to you—?”
“You fucking bitch,” he thundered.
I had seconds of satisfaction—of finally seeing his facade crack—before Tomasini was striding towards me. Fuck, fuck, fuck—I made another mistake. His usual pale face was blotchy with anger, cutting the distance between us in record time.
I stumbled over my shoes to get away from him, I backed into the arm of my chair, and the chair slid, taking away my sense of gravity. The room spun, I fell, my head hit the floor with a crack.
His hands were on me, digging into my shoulders. Pain shot through me, my head ached. I tried to knee him, to get him off of me. He was so much bigger than me. My heart pounded in my throat, I couldn’t get him off me—
Tomasini’s hold disappeared. A flash of jet-black hair was in and out of my eyesight, Nick dragging Tomasini back, arms locked around him, fighting him to the ground.
“Get the fuck off me!” Tomasini shouted. “You’re dead, Tallulah, you are fucking dead!”
Tomasini lurched for me again, and Nick’s fist flew, punching him in the face. So many of the newsroom staff swarmed the fight. The doors flew open, security pouring in.
There were too many people—I couldn’t see through them.
I tried to stand but couldn’t, my head was swimming. The scuffle was still going on, I heard it. Tomasini’s shoes squealed against the ground as he kicked out, screaming at everyone.
Nick appeared, kneeling down beside me, filling my vision, bringing me to crush me to his chest.
I gulped in hard breaths. “I—I didn’t think he was going to—”
“Are you okay?” Nick’s fingers were gentle in my hair, prodding my skull. I winced. “Are you okay? Tallulah! Are you okay?!”
“I—I think so,” I whispered, shaken up.
Nick hugged me close, his words barely audible over Tomasini’s threats while they hauled him out of the room. “Don’t ever do that to me again. Gave me a fucking heart attack.”
A wave of nausea hit me as hard as the floor did. My head swimming didn’t matter. I staggered to stand, whirling around the staff to reach the bathroom. The toilet seat was covered. I didn’t have enough time. I threw up in the sink.
“I got you, I got you.” Nick held up my hair. “Oh my god, is this a concussion?”
“No, it’s anxiety,” I choked out, throwing up again.
“I’m taking you to the hospital—”
“It’s not a concussion—”
“I don’t give a shit, we’re going—”
One of the editors walked in, oblivious to Nick’s panic. Her smile was the most prominent thing in the mirror. “Ms. Walker! We got him!”
“She needs to go to the hospital,” Nick barked.
“I’m not going to the hospital,” I said quickly. “Are you okay?”
“Me?” Nick repeated in disbelief. “Of course, I’m—” In seconds, he reconsidered. “No! You scared the fuck out of me! So we’re going to the hospital!”