Page 50 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Professional, no grunting.

Barely recognizable.

“However,” she says.

I swallow the grunt that threatens to leave my mouth. I look down at Puck. He looks up like he, too, expected the blade.

“We do need to be mindful of community concerns.”

“About?”

I know about what.

She knows I know.

We both do the polite dance anyway because adults enjoy wasting oxygen when shame is in the room.

“There are parents who have questions about your time in the league,” she says. “Your playing style. Your history. You’ll be dealing with young, impressionable athletes, and we don’t want them to believe that violence⁠—”

“Violence isn’t the answer,” I say.

Too fast.

I hear it the second it leaves my mouth.

I force my jaw to relax. Puck sniffs my hand.

“I’m aware,” I add. “I also hope the parents understand that sometimes reporters use whatever clip gets attention.”

“Yes, of course,” she says. “But the incident.”

My hand tightens around the leash.

The incident.

People love a clean little phrase. It lets them put the ugly thing in a box and label it without touching the contents.

The incident.

Not the tunnel after the game.

Not the shove before the camera started rolling.

Not my teammate bleeding from the mouth.

Not me losing my temper after seventeen years of being told restraint was discipline until the one time I failed became the only proof anyone needed.

The incident.

“I understand,” I say, because apparently anger management did teach me something.

Mostly how to swallow words before they cost money.

“I want to be clear,” Principal Whitcomb continues. “We’re not making assumptions.”

Sure.

“We simply need parents to feel confident that whoever leads this program will model discipline, accountability, and emotional regulation.”