“Of course,” he says, ushering us toward the chairs. “One clarification—we do want to show the ultrasound for context. We’ll blur the watermark?—”
“No,” I say, before his sentence finishes. The word is steady, not loud. “You don’t put stolen medical images on television to explain theft.”
He spreads his hands. “Our audience needs a visual to understand?—”
“They can understand without consuming a violation,” Riley says, voice level as a medic calling a timeout. She sits without waiting for permission, crossing one ankle over the other like the chair is her office and this is a consult. “Context is the independent oversight, the audit trail, the part where I am a professional who didn’t consent to her records being weaponized.”
Julia slides a folder onto the table between us and taps it once. “Practice footage from three separate sessions showing neutral treatment protocols. Rehab logs signed by the independent. Player usage charts. You want visuals, use those.”
The producer hesitates, weighing difference between salacious and solid. I help him.
“You put that ultrasound up and you become the story we’re here to condemn,” I say. “You blur it, you still normalize it. Or you run tape of me doing suicides until I puke and logs that prove we ran procedure by the book. One makes you part of the problem. One makes you the outlet that didn’t.”
He glances at the stage manager, then back at us. “We can lead with the rehab visuals,” he concedes. “But online needs a hook.”
“Your hook is accountability,” Riley answers. “Harassment hotline on screen. Our request that you blur any previously published medical images, even if you weren’t the first to run them. Make a standard. Be first at that.”
Something in his expression shifts, calculation tilting toward pride. He nods, small. “Alright. Rehab tape, logs, hotline lower third. No ultrasound. No clinic name.” He extends a hand across the table like we’re closing a deal on a car.
I don’t shake yet. “Chyron language,” I say. “We approve it before we sit.”
He signals to a graphics op, who wheels over with a tablet.JASON MADDOX: SPEAKING OUT AGAINST STAFF HARASSMENTblares in draft-red, with a crawl:INDEPENDENT OVERSIGHT CONFIRMED—REHAB LOGS AVAILABLE.
“Lose the hero framing,” Riley says, dry. “Change it toJason and Riley speak to boundaries and process. And the crawl:Independent oversight confirmed; harassment of staff is unacceptable.”
The op edits, fingers flying. We watch the words morph into a version we can live with.
Julia finally offers her hand. “Guardrails locked,” she says. The producer shakes like he understands it’s an oath.
The stage manager steps in with two wireless lav mics and a tray of battery packs. “Mic checks,” she says, efficient. She clips Riley’s mic with practiced gentleness, asking with her eyes before her hands move; she does the same for me and tucks the pack under my jacket. The tape pulls once on my collarbone and I anchor my breath to the small sting.
“Two minutes,” someone calls from the booth. The cameras adjust; the red tally lights blink their pre-flight. The rehab footage rolls silent on a preview monitor—me skating lines, a timecode in the corner; a clipboard in the frame with the independent’s initials; Riley in the background, professional, distant, the way she’s always been when we were doing it right.
I look at her. She meets my eyes. No script. Just the rules we made and the promise we keep.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Together,” she says, and the mics are live.
The tally lights go red and the room rearranges itself into a version of truth that fits inside ten minutes. The host faces our camera with that calm-lake expression anchors use when the water underneath is all undertow.
“Tonight,” she says, “Jason Maddox and Riley Lane join us to talk about boundaries, harassment, and what comes next.” The lower third we approved slides on:JASON & RILEY: BOUNDARIES AND PROCESS. Beside it, a crawl:INDEPENDENT OVERSIGHT CONFIRMED — HARASSMENT OF STAFF IS UNACCEPTABLE. The hotline number ticks along the bottom like a lifeline.
She turns to me first. “Jason, why speak now?”
Because someone stole an image of our future and sold it for clicks. I don’t say that. I say, “Because the conversation got loud and lost the plot. The plot is that staff deserve safety, privacy, and respect. Riley does her job at the highest level. If you want proof, ask for the audit.” The monitor over the camera rolls rehab footage: me skating lines, a clipboard in frame, the independent physician’s initials stamped next to timecodes. Facts, not rumor.
“Are you worried about consequences?” the host asks, gentle like she’s trying not to spook a horse.
“I’m willing to accept consequences that are mine,” I say. “What I won’t accept is Riley paying a price for my mistakes or for other people’s projections. We followed process. When there was potential for a conflict, we created distance and brought in oversight. That’s the standard.”
She pivots to Riley. “Riley, what do you want people to understand?”
Riley sits forward just enough to claim her space. “That trainers are professionals, not storylines,” she says. “That harassment—online or in hallways—has real costs. And that medical privacy isn’t a debate topic.” Her mic carries the steady cadence she uses when she tells a player the truth about their timeline. The camera doesn’t eat her; it listens.
The host tries the ultrasound angle without saying the word. “There are images circulating?—”
Riley doesn’t blink. “Images that should never have been public,” she says. “We’re asking every outlet to blur or remove them and to consider the precedent they set when they normalize medical theft.”
