Page 65 of Home Ice

“No, I don’t look at messages when I’m driving.”

“Good. Then here’s the whole thing going on. This is a bad day, and it’s going to be a terrible week, but it’s not more than that. The contract you signed protects you. There’s no misconduct anywhere in this. Legally, this is a nothing sandwich. It is a story problem, but they end. I’ve seen worse and handled worse.”

“Okay.”

“The walk-away clause is live, obviously. One word from you and the arrangement’s over, but I think there’s no rush—“

“It’s already over,” I said. “Isn’t it? It ended this morning without me saying anything.”

Hal was quiet for a second.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s about right.” His end of the call was silent. “Reporters will show up tomorrow. I’ll send you talking points tonight. They’ll be true ones, and you’ll say them better than I write them. Before that, if asked, you don’t know who leaked it. I’m not saying you do, but in case.”

I heard Marta’s voice again. And is there a real one?

“Rafe. You with me?”

“I’m with you.”

“The last thing: How are you doing? I mean the real you, not any media version of you.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “It’s a lot, but I’m fine.”

“Eat something,” Hal said. “Call your parents. Also, when Max surfaces, whatever’s going on in his camp isn’t about you. Sympathy traffic crests like a tidal wave. It carries people along. Give him room.”

We hung up. I texted Max before I put the truck in gear:

Rafe: you okay?

It said delivered, but there was no response.

On the way home, I sat through a light change without moving. A guy behind me honked. I raised a hand and moved at the next opportunity.

My apartment looked the way it always did. I’d made my bed and wiped down the kitchen counter. After pacing one circle around the living room, I sat on the sectional and did what Varga told me never to do.

Nobody reads their own coverage right. They read the one bad comment, and then they miss the big picture.

I did my best to read it the way Varga would. I went through all of it, top to bottom, before deciding anything.

The story itself was short. Every outlet said the same things. They showed the January photo outside the restaurant and used the word fabricated.

Then they chose sides. According to the media, it was all happening to Max. He was an influencer used by the hockey PR machine.

I was the man who agreed to be in on the deception.

Nobody wrote it that way, but they didn’t have to. Social media figured it out on its own.

They said the Saskatchewan farm kid idea was a ruse. I’d been trained by the media to be polite. They said Varga and I cooked up me giving the hat trick away to pass to him. Running along the bottom of the TV screen, I saw the phrase that would be repeated over and over: calculated humility.

Nobody found any evidence I was lying about anything. They assumed I was. Without it, their story wouldn’t work.

The truth was that everything that happened was true. We didn’t lie about the dinner, and the pass to Varga was genuine. Max was hilarious, and I did like him, but the definition of the relationship was the fake thing.

My phone buzzed. It was the latest post on the team chat. I opened it to see a photo of Peaches asleep on Trier’s lap. Seconds later, someone shared Mark’s statement from the team, as vague as he said it would be.

My phone rang. It was Mom.

“You’re there,” she said. “I told your dad that you’ve got practice, and you’ll call when you’re done. Are you home?”