Nolan folds his hands. He has pianist’s fingers for a man who prefers other people to do the playing. “Security will walk you to media in ten. You’ll smile, you’ll point at logos, you’ll talk about team chemistry and discipline. Tomorrow you’ll stay off brand row and you will not be photographed within six feet of Ms. Lane.”
Her last name in his mouth makes something mean uncurl in my chest. “Ms. Lane pulled a kid back from a groin tear in ten days. Reduced soft-tissue incidents by eighteen percent. My zone entries are up since she took over, my recovery windows are tighter, and I haven’t missed a game for maintenance since July. If you care about optics, put those on a billboard.”
His eyes flick, a tiny acknowledgment I file away. He reaches for the tumbler and doesn’t drink. “And if I care about eight figures in sponsor commitments that come with moralityclauses?” He glances at the silent TV where the logo wall glows behind my frozen celebration. “Optics, Jason. Not outcomes.”
I plant a palm on the back of the empty chair to keep from pacing. The leather gives under my hand with a quiet protest. “Outcomes built the optics you sell.”
“You’ve been useful to me because you win hockey games.” He sets the glass down with surgical precision, as if any spill would be a confession. “I assume you want to continue.”
Useful lands like a slash across my shins. I picture Riley’s clipboard, the neat rows, the way her hands never shake until she’s alone. The room tilts and rights itself. “I want the people who make winning possible to be treated like they matter.”
“Everyone matters,” he says—the kind of thing only people with private elevators say. “Some are easier to replace.”
The Zamboni makes another lap. My jaw locks so hard I hear a pop in my ear. I lean into the ache. “So talk to me. Say what you’re not saying.”
“Code of Conduct, Section Twelve.” He recites it like a bedtime story for a child who won’t sleep: “Supervisory personnel shall avoid relationships—perceived, implied, or actual—that could compromise professional judgment. Trainers fall under supervisory personnel.” His fingers steeple. “Perceived. Implied. Or actual.”
“I heard the words. I’m giving you numbers.”
He tips his chin—permission to hang myself with my own rope.
“Soft-tissue incidence, down eighteen percent after she reworked mobility. Return-to-play on lower-body strains, twelve days under league median. Hydration and sleep-tracking compliance at ninety-two percent, which is a miracle with this room of children.” I don’t blink. “You’re paying for performance. She’s why you’re getting it.”
He doesn’t argue data; men like Nolan don’t argue numbers when they can outprice them. “We’re paying for a product,” he says, “and protecting its brand. Sponsors have clawbacks if we violate moral-turpitude and franchise-integrity clauses. That’s eight figures of potential exposure if certain images suggest…”—a thin smile—“improper fraternization.”
Improper fraternization sounds like a Victorian disease. “Images suggest whatever cameras are aimed to suggest.” I can still feel the red light winking, my hand hovering near Riley’s elbow, the brand wall glowing like stained glass. “If this is about optics, fix the frame, not the people doing their jobs.”
“Frames are cheaper to fix when you remove the inconvenient subject,” he says mildly. “We could place Ms. Lane on leave. Quietly. Bring in a temp from our affiliate. Cycle the story in forty-eight hours.”
The floor tips; I pin it with my palm on the chair back. “You remove her, performance drops. That’s not hypothetical.”
“We would cope,” he says, and the we isn’t me. “And we would avoid fines. The League can fine for conduct detrimental. I don’t believe in paying for lessons twice.”
“Fine me,” I say, the words faster than prudence. “You want a zero-tolerance headline? Make it about me. Put a muzzle on the narrative without sacrificing the one person in this building who keeps bodies from breaking.”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You’d like to be the martyr?”
“I’d like the truth to matter more than speculation.” The glass throws our reflections together; for a second I can pretend we’re on the same side of it. “You know what she is. Ask Coach. Ask Adams. Ask the room.”
“I know what you are,” he says, and the compliment is barbed. “An asset. One who occasionally confuses courage with control. Tell me, Jason—if the choice were between a publicapology, a fine, and a short suspension for conduct, versus a quiet staff change no one outside our walls will remember in a week—what choice do you think maximizes wins?”
Both answers are wrong. My tongue tastes metal anyway. “The one where we don’t punish the person doing her job.”
He studies me like a stock chart, looking for trend lines. “Section Twelve exists so the team doesn’t have to adjudicate feelings,” he says, cool as the skyline. “It exists so I don’t have to factor your pulse into my balance sheet.”
“My pulse is why you have a balance sheet,” I snap, then throttle back. “You want a solution that satisfies code? Keep doors open. Double-staff treatments. Cameras invited. Distance measurable on paper and nonexistent on the ice.”
His eyes narrow a fraction—the first hint I’ve given him math he can spend. He taps the tumbler once. “And the images that already exist?”
“Sell the truth harder than the rumor.”
His phone lights the table between us, the screen bleeding white across the glass. He glances at the name and hits speaker.
“Glen,” a woman’s voice floods the room, bright with the kind of friendliness that bills by the quarter hour. “You’ve got me and Legal on. And Jason—hello. Congratulations on the win.”
“Evening, Marla,” he says. Nolan never uses last names. He doesn’t have to.
“I’ll be blunt so we can all get to bed: our board reviewed tonight’s media cycle. The bench-adjacent footage is already trending. We can’t sit on this. If the… trainer issue isn’t resolved promptly, Vectra will suspend in-arena signage and withhold the Q3 activation.”
