“Credentialed media only beyond this point.”
“I am credentialed.”
“Rinkside credential. You’ll need to submit a request through PR.”
I submit it.
Denied within an hour.
Gil: They’re freezing you out. Expected. Don’t react. Keep writing.
Easy for him to say.
He is not the one eating takeout alone in a borrowed Airbnb, wondering whether the man I cannot stop thinking about hates me more for what I wrote or for how true it was.
My phone stays silent all night.
That is the answer I deserve.
Peyton
The invitation arrives three days after the Houston piece went live, which is long enough for my inbox to become a crime scene.
I have been called biased, brave, jealous, observant, bought, bitter, and one memorable word that involved anatomy and a misunderstanding of how women work. A fan account with a cartoon bull logo has posted a slowed-down clip of Ryan skating to the penalty box and captioned it: CAPTAIN LOST HIS DAMN MIND. Another has posted the same clip with: FINALLY, SOMEONE CARES.
I have not liked either one.
I have refreshed the analytics anyway, because apparently professional integrity does not prevent a person from checking whether strangers are fighting in the comments.
Gil calls at 7:02 that morning.
“Peyton, I received a note from Mr. Hartley’s office. They’re inviting you to watch tomorrow’s game from the owner’s box.”
I sit back from my laptop. “That sounds less like an invitation than a positioning exercise.”
“That is also how I read it.” Paper rustles on his end. “They want you where they can see you. They also want you to see what they want seen.”
“The corrected version of Ryan McAllister.”
“Probably. Or the sellable one.” Gil pauses. “Are you comfortable accepting?”
I look at the press credential on my desk. It has been useless since Houston. Players who joked with me before practice now find urgent reasons to tie their skates. One assistant coach answered four questions with seven variations of “that’s internal.” A rookie looked at me like I might unzip and reveal a league investigator inside.
“Comfortable? No.”
“Good. Then stay alert. Attend the game. Observe the suite. Observe Mr. Hartley. Do not let access soften the piece.”
“And if they try to intimidate me?”
“Document it. Keep the tone clean. If anyone asks for copy approval, the answer is no.”
I smile despite myself. Then I look at the blank document open beside the comments, the follow-up I have not yet found the shape of. “Gil.”
“Yes?”
“If I was too hard on him…”
“You filed it. It ran. That part’s done.”
