Not just Masterson’s career. Mine too.
This was supposed to be a career-defining opportunity.Director of Communications for a major market NHL team, high-profile role, chance to work with one of the best organizations in the league.
The fact that my father is the head coach complicates things.
Marshall sold me on it six months ago over dinner in Chicago, where I’d been handling PR for a sports management firm. “You’re the best crisis team in hockey. You’d get major market exposure, have unlimited budget. You’d be reporting directly to me, not your father. This is about your skillset, not your last name.”
I knew how it would look. Knew every media outlet would mention “Coach Enver’s son” in every article. Knew players would wonder if I got the job because of my father instead of my credentials.
But it was too good to pass up. And I was arrogant enough to think I could make people forget about the connection by being so good at my job that it wouldn’t matter.
Two weeks in, and I’m already dealing with a crisis that could define my entire future here.
My door opens without a knock. Dad walks in, still in his team jacket, looking exactly as tired as I feel.
“You should go home,” he says.
“So should you.”
“I’m not the one who has to present a damage control strategy to the GM and the league tomorrow.”
“Fair point.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Want to tell me about Masterson?”
Dad sits, runs a hand through his hair. “What do you want to know?”
“Why he thinks violence solves problems.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is. But three million people have now watched him assault a fan, and I need to know if this is a pattern or an isolated incident.”
“He’s protective. Of his teammates, of the people he cares about. Sometimes too protective.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.” Dad leans forward. “Look, I know how this looks. I know what the video shows. But the fan was harassing Tate, using hate speech, and Masterson stepped in.”
“By throwing him into a barricade.”
“After the fan shoved him first.”
“Which isn’t on video. Which means it didn’t happen as far as public opinion is concerned.”
I stand up and move to the window overlooking the practice rink. Below, the ice is dark, empty, and waiting for tomorrow’s morning skate. In a few hours, the building will be full of players and coaches and staff, all of them wondering if Masterson’s going to be suspended, if the team’s going to face sanctions, if this is going to cost them their season.
“Tell me about him,” I say without turning around. “The real version. Not the public persona.”
“Masterson’s been with the Raptors for four years. He’s a solid player, good teammate, takes too many penalties but usually for the right reasons.”
“Define ‘right reasons.’”
“Defending teammates. Standing up when someone crosses a line. He’s the first one into a fight if someone takes a cheap shot at our guys.”
“So he’s violent.”
“He’s loyal. There’s a difference.”
I turn to face him. “Not when the video shows him attacking a civilian.”
