How to Survive Your Own Scandal (Spoiler: You Don’t)
Cohen
The press room looks like a brightly lit morgue.
Too white, too many microphones, too many eyes.
And I, who wanted to avoid being seen by anyone for at least three lifetimes, am sitting behind a table with the club logo at my back and three men in suits pretending they don’t hate me.
Nate told me to arrive sober, shaved, and with a trustworthy expression.
I managed two out of three.
“Remember,” he whispers near my ear, “no jokes. No sarcasm. No truth.”
“Perfect,” I mumble. “So I just breathe.”
“Pretty much.”
In front of us, a thicket of journalists.
Cameras, notebooks, phones recording every little movement.
The air smells of electrical cords and the sweat of people who are just waiting for a live breakdown.
The Director of Communications begins to speak, his voice formal:
“We thank everyone for attending. Mr. Becker wishes to release a brief statement regarding recent events.”
Translation:showtime, act one.
I lean toward the microphone.
Nate hands me a sheet of paper. His green eyes stare at me, further recommending I don’t mess up.
I look at him in turn. He runs a hand through his perfectly combed hair.
I read the paper in my mind. The lines. Words I didn't write.
I take full responsibility for my actions.I apologize to my teammates, the club, and the fans for the negative image I have projected.
I think I'd rather shoot myself in the foot. At least I could say that in my own words.
I inhale. I read. I feel every syllable like glass in my mouth.
Silence.
A couple of flashes.
Then the questions start pouring in.
“Cohen, has the woman in the video been identified?”
“Was she a fan? An escort? An acquaintance?”
“Do you plan to take legal action?”
“Did the club impose a media blackout?”
