Trainer issue. She says it like a squeaky wheel, not a person. My grip tightens on the chairback until the leather creaks. “Resolved how?” I ask, voice flat.
A micro-pause, calculating whether to pretend I’m not here. “Hi, Jason.” Brighter. “This is really a matter for ownership.”
“I’m asking a technical question. Define resolved.”
“Optically neutralized,” a second voice cuts in—male, pleasantly bland. Legal. “No ongoing proximity that could suggest inappropriate conduct. Preferably a personnel reassignment to eliminate risk.”
Reassignment. They mean removal. They mean Riley. I put my free hand in my pocket before it makes a fist.
“We’re exploring options that satisfy Code Twelve while maintaining performance,” Nolan says, eyes on the skyline instead of me.
“Of course,” Marla purrs. “We adore performance. But we also adore family-friendly brand alignment. Our brand lives on your dasher boards. If a narrative suggests impropriety between a star and a staffer, it compromises both brands. We have morality language for a reason.”
My ghost raises a stick on the muted TV, logo wall burning like stained glass. Just out of frame, she’s doing her job. “Your brand also lives on wins,” I say. “Pull signage and the building still sells out if we’re winning. You want the lights on? Keep the people who make winning possible.”
Another pause. I can hear her smile through the line. “You’re very charismatic, Jason. That’s part of the equation. But this is simple risk math. If the story is true, we have a problem. If it isn’t, you should have no trouble making a change to demonstrate that it isn’t.”
It’s an ultimatum dressed as compromise. My teeth find the sore spot in my jaw. “Or we tell the truth and stop pretending a woman doing her job is scandalous.”
Legal exhales into the mic, a gentle scold. “Let’s avoid gendered rhetoric. We’re speaking about policy.”
“No,” I say, and the word lands heavy enough to still the room. “You’re speaking about a scapegoat.”
Nolan’s eyes flick, warning. I don’t look away.
“We’re speaking about a partnership,” Marla says, cooler now. “We need assurance by morning that this will not escalate. If that means a statement, do that. If that means a staffing change, do that. Our board meets at nine.” She lets the time sit like a countdown. “We love winners. We also love clean lines.”
“Thank you, Marla. We’ll revert by eight,” Nolan says. The line clicks dead.
The room feels smaller after her voice is gone, like we took on water. I rub a hand over my mouth and taste copper. The words they didn’t say echo anyway: make her disappear.
“Resolved,” Nolan repeats, already shifting pieces on an invisible board. He looks at me at last. “You heard the parameters.”
I nod. I know what I’m going to do. The thought lands between us like a dropped puck—heavy and decisive. It isn’t brave. It’s arithmetic.
“If anyone goes, it’s me.” My voice is steady enough to scare me. “Suspend me. Fine me. Issue whatever statement makes your board sleep. But you don’t touch her. You want clean lines? Draw them around me.”
He studies me the way he studies quarterly reports, looking for trend lines, not truths. “Dramatic.”
“Practical.” I push off the chairback and stand still so he sees I mean it. “I’d step off the ice to protect what actually wins you games.”
A beat. Then he leans forward—forearms to knees, the closest I’ve seen him come to human. “You will not resign,” he says, low, like a contract clause. “You will not post. You will not inflame. I will consider your… substitution. Go home. Let me do my job.”
“Do the right one,” I say, already turning. Security opens the door like they were waiting on a signal. The hallway is cooler and louder—the familiar thrum of the building scraping some of the poison off my teeth.
I don’t make it ten steps before my phone vibrates. It’s her name without a picture—I never risked one. I duck into an alcove by a service stairwell where the HVAC drowns the world and answer on the first ring.
“Hey,” I say, softer than anything in that room deserved. “I can fix this. Let me.”
For half a heartbeat there’s only air and the sound of a locker door closing on her end. When she comes in, her voice is thin thread pulled tight. “They moved my interview. Seven a.m. They want the team phone. Device review.”
The phrase lands like a puck to the ribs. “They can’t take your personal.”
“They don’t have to. They can comb the work one and ask me to explain what the gaps mean.”
“Okay. You walk in with counsel.”
“I don’t have counsel.” Scalpel-clean. “I have a temporary badge and a very neat declination form.”
