“The fan wasn’t a civilian. He was a drunk asshole spewing hate at a family event.”
“Which is terrible. But it doesn’t justify physical assault.”
Dad stands, moves toward the door. “I’m not saying whatMasterson did was right. I’m saying it’s more complicated than a ten-second video clip.”
“Complicated doesn’t sell. Clear narratives sell. And right now, the narrative is ‘violent hockey player attacks fan.’”
“Then change the narrative.”
“That’s what Marshall’s paying me to do.”
He pauses at the door. “Noah, I know this isn’t how you wanted to start this job. But Masterson’s not the problem. The problem is we live in a world where context doesn’t matter as much as optics.”
“Context always matters. I just have to find a way to make people care about it.”
He leaves, and I’m alone with my screens and my three-million-view problem.
I pull up Masterson’s file. Four years with the Raptors, 127 penalty minutes last season, disciplinary record that includes three fines and one suspension for fighting. His stats are solid—good points per game, decent plus-minus, respected by teammates.
But his reputation precedes him. “Brilliant player. Absolute menace.”
I’ve read the scouting reports, the media coverage, the fan forums. Half the league thinks he’s a goon who should be banned. The other half thinks he’s exactly the kind of player you want on your team.
I scroll through his social media. Lots of chirping at other players, lots of jokes, lots of photos with teammates. The image he projects is all humor and bravado, the guy who keeps the locker room loose.
But something about today’s incident doesn’t fit that image. The way he moved to protect Tate wasn’t calculated. It was instinctive. Immediate.
Like he couldn’t have stopped himself even if he’d wanted to.
My phone buzzes again with a text from an unknown number. I furrow my brow at the screen.
This is Tate Barnes. Can we talk about what happened today?
I debate ignoring it, then type back.
Not without clearing it through official channels. Everything related to the incident goes through me now.
That’s why I’m texting you.
Office hours are 9-5. See me tomorrow.
Masterson was protecting me. The video doesn’t show the whole story.
I grit my teeth. Jesus, what part of 9-5 doesn’t this guy understand?
The video shows what three million people are seeing. That’s the story I have to manage.
But he’s not a bad guy.
I never said he was.
Then why are you treating him like one?
I let out a frustrated sigh and toss my phone onto the table without responding. This is already getting complicated, and I haven’t even started dealing with the league investigation yet.
The truth is, I don’t think Masterson’s a bad guy. I think he’s impulsive, reckless, and completely lacking in self-preservation instincts. But the look on his face when he stepped between that fan and Tate wasn’t malicious.
It was protective. Almost desperately so.
