“What?” The guy shoves me a third time, and I see the flash of phone cameras. “You s-scared? Pussy. Come on, hit me. S-show everyone what a tough guy you are.”
Two security guys in black shirts cut through the crowd, heading in our direction.
The drunk guy sees them coming and shoves me one more time. Fucking asshole. “That’s what I thought. Big s-shot hockey player, too chickenshit to?—”
Security grabs him and pulls him toward the exit. He’s still yelling, still trying to get to me, but I just stand there, watching and shaking my head.
Don’t move. Don’t react. Don’t give anyone a reason to make this into something it’s not.
Carter nudges me. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“That took serious restraint, bro.”
“Yeah, well. I learned my lesson the first time.”
Tate appears, phone in hand. “Someone already posted it to Twitter and tagged the team account.”
“Great,” I groan. “How bad did they twist it?”
“No, actually...look. Not twisted at all.” He shows me his screen.
The video’s already got a few hundred views. In less than a freaking minute. Christ, social media is unreal. But this time, someone filmed the whole thing and caught the guy shoving me, me stepping back, and then security removing him.
The caption says:
Masterson showing serious growth. Drunk fan tries to provoke him and he walks away. Respect.
Comments pop up on my screen. Shockingly, most of them positive…people saying I did the right thing, that I’ve learned from thePuck Festincident, that this is what maturity looks like.
“See?” Tate grins. “GoodPR.”
I grin and pull out my own phone to check the Raptors’ official account. They haven’t reposted it yet, but they will. And when they do, Noah will see it.
Because Noah sees everything.
An hour later, I’m in my truck heading home when my phone buzzes in the console. The text notification from Noah flashes on my screen and I hit the screen to listen.
Saw the video. Well done.
I hit the reply button on the screen.
Remembered what you said. About de-escalating.
You’re learning.
I chuckle and reply.
Does that mean you’re proud of me?
I wait. Five minutes. Ten.
No response.
I grit my teeth, white-knuckle the steering wheel, and drive home, deflated.
Because for a second, I thought maybe this would be different. Maybe showing restraint, proving I learned something, would crack through that professional wall he keeps between us.
