“That’s not what I asked.”
“No.” He doesn’t fill the silence. “But it’s the part I’ve got an answer for.”
I hang up still holding the question.
The next night, the VIP entrance at the arena smells like polished stone, perfume, and money pretending not to be nervous. I wear black trousers, a cream sweater, and a coat Ibought after California because it makes me look like a woman who has never once cried in an airport bathroom over a story she should have filed correctly.
A young arena staffer checks my credential twice before handing it back. “Ms. Hayes? Mr. Hartley’s assistant will meet you upstairs.”
“Lucky me.”
The staffer blinks.
“Sorry. Inside voice escaped.”
Upstairs, the owner’s suite looks less like a place to watch hockey and more like a place to decide what hockey means. Glass stretches along the front. Leather chairs face the ice. A buffet steams against one wall, ignored by people holding champagne flutes and speaking in low, expensive bursts.
Samantha Cole stands near the window with a camera strap across her chest, shooting through the glass as Ryan comes out for warmups. The lens follows him with professional patience: helmet off, hair damp from the skate, jaw set, shoulders loose in a way that probably makes an entire marketing department sigh into its spreadsheets.
Samantha lowers the camera when I approach. “Brave place to stand this week.”
“I could say the same to you.”
“I have a camera. People forgive cameras faster than notebooks.”
“Only because cameras make them look better.”
“Sometimes.” Samantha glances toward the ice. “Sometimes they make people honest by accident.”
Before I can answer, Jennifer from communications appears with a smile sharp enough to open mail. “Peyton. We’re so glad you came.”
That is how I know this is going to be awful.
Bob Hartley waits near the front of the suite, hands in his pockets, silver hair combed back, expression mild. The owner of the San Antonio Stampede does not look like a man who is angry. He looks like a man who has learned anger lowers resale value.
“Ms. Hayes,” he says. “Thank you for accepting.”
“It was a generous invitation.”
“It was a strategic one.”
At least he respects me enough not to lie badly.
We stand at the glass. Below us, Ryan circles once at the red line, then pivots backward with the easy violence of a man born on blades. A puck comes loose near Evan McKinney. Evan flicks it through traffic without looking. Ryan catches the pass on his tape, glances up toward the owner’s box, and I feel the look hit me like contact.
No smile this time.
That makes it worse.
“Your article caused some discomfort,” Bob says.
“Most accurate reporting does.”
He makes a small approving sound. “Some inaccurate reporting does too.”
“Is that why I’m here? To be corrected?”
“Partly.” He shifts his attention to the warmup, where Evan has stolen a puck from a rookie and is making him chase it while two veterans laugh. “Mostly I wanted to know whether you meant it.”
