Page 20

"I'm aware of what state we're in." She didn't look at him. She looked at me. "Mr. Hale?"

Saul objected again. The court reporter typed it. Kline said she'd rephrase, and then she asked the same question with different words, and I sat there in a suit I'd worn to two weddings and a funeral and looked at a painting of a sailboat on the wall behind her head until Saul put his hand flat on the table between us and said, "My client's answered."

I hadn't, though. That's the part I keep coming back to. I hadn't answered anything.

Now it's eight-fifty-five the next morning, and I'm in the hallway outside Moretti's office with a coffee I'm not drinking, and my knee feels like somebody packed it with gravel overnight.

Castel shows up at eight-fifty-nine. He's wearing sweatpants, a hoodie with a cartoon moose on it, and sunglasses, indoors.

"Morning," he says.

"Take those off."

"My eyes are sensitive."

"You look like you're going to a funeral in Miami."

He pushes the sunglasses up into his hair. His eyes are puffy, red at the edges. He didn't sleep. He looks at me and I can see him deciding whether to say something about the message, about head up on the boards, and then deciding not to.

"Is he going to scratch me?" he says instead.

"I don't know."

"You've been here a hundred years. You know everything."

"Seventeen."

"That's basically a hundred in hockey."

The door opens. Moretti looks at both of us like we're a bill he forgot to pay.

"In."

There are three people in the office, not one. Moretti behind his desk. Dale Pruitt, the general manager, in the good chair by the window, in a quarter-zip with the team logo on it. On the couch, a woman I don't know, sitting on the couch with a tablet on her knees and a lanyard that says Brand & Community Partnerships.

Nobody offers us chairs. Castel stands next to me with his hands shoved in the moose's pouch.

"Let's make this quick," Pruitt says. He's got a voice made for season ticket holders. "Rémy. Last night."

"I know," Castel says. "I'm sorry. It was a bad read."

"It was a bad read," Pruitt agrees. "It was also a bad quote. 'I regret it didn't work.'" He shakes his head, but he's smiling a little, like he's a dad whose kid broke a window with a really good throw. "The radio guys have been playing it on a loop since seven a.m."

"I know."

"We're not scratching you."

Castel's whole body loosens. I feel it next to me, like a guy coming off the ice after a long penalty kill.

"You're too good to scratch," Pruitt goes on, "and frankly you're too important. This is Nadia, from brand." He gestures at the woman on the couch. "Nadia, you want to⁠—"

"Sure." Nadia smiles at Castel. It's a very warm smile, and it's aimed at him like a camera. "Rémy, your jersey's the number one seller in the league right now. Not on the team. In the league. We have partners who are very excited about you. We have a youth initiative launching in November with a lot of community organizations. You're the centerpiece."

"Okay," Castel says, slowly.

"What we can't have," she says, still smiling, "is another week like this one. The clip with the music. The comments. The radio. It's a distraction, and it makes it harder for our partners to stand next to you."

"I didn't make the clip."