Page 77 of Scoring Zone
I stare without saying a word. Austin’s fame might have protected him from such pettiness, but as a nobody, I don’thave any clout. The silence drags on, but I don’t defend myself because it’s too late.
After my brain has discarded a million responses, I find my voice. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Why?” he asks without anger or judgment.
“I love my job and this organization. I’m sorry about causing trouble.” My voice shakes, but it’s totally sincere.
Mr. Dimon’s eyes cut to Wes. “I promised the mayor and the chief that I would explain Mr. Dumas’s position regarding the altercation. Thank you for witnessing that.” With a nod, he dismisses Wes from the room.
“Help me understand your thought process.” He reclines in his chair.
“Sir, there wasn’t much thinking. I’d been drinking, and Dumas called me a nobody, which, pardon my language, pissed me off, and I hit him. I deeply regret my actions and any harm they might cause the team.” Only one word in my explanation was a lie.
“I don’t appreciate the mayor and chief of police trying to tell me how to run my organization.” He leans forward on his elbows. “I also need one hundred percent honesty to back my employees. Do you see how this leaves me in a bind, Mr. Ward?”
I shake my head. Mr. Dimon has a reputation for being a fair hard-ass, and I won’t break at the first sign of pressure from him. He can’t possibly know I’m lying.
“Did you know I’m the youngest GM in the NHL?” My head bobs in acknowledgment. “Many people underestimate me because of it or try to intimidate me. I don’t argue with people’s perceptions. One thing that sets me apart from my competitors is my thoroughness. Blaine Dumas is the nephew of the mayor, and his father plays golf with the chief of police.”
“Oh,” I say stupidly.
“Always know who you’re dealing with when you enter a fight, Mr. Ward. You didn’t know who you were dealing with, did you?”
“No,” I admit.
“I’m friends with the owner of the restaurant you were at last night. I asked him for the security camera footage. Would you like to change your story?”
“No, sir.” I’m not letting an entitled brat fuck up Austin’s career. “Camera angles can be misleading. Dumas insulted me and lunged forward. I thought he was going to attack me or Ace, so I hit him. Ace threw his hands up to block Dumas. I’m sure it must be hard to see it accurately at night when everyone was wearing a black coat.” I use Austin’s team nickname to downplay our relationship.
Mr. Dimon thrums his fingers on his desk, not breaking eye contact with me. Security camera footage is grainy, so with the wind blowing snow around, there’s no way any video could be decisive.
“It was self-defense on your part. How fortunate for you that Mr. Brant was there to back up your side of the story.” His shrewd eyes never leave mine. There’s a surprising underlying venom when he says Brant’s name.
“It wasn’t a coincidence. Rhys said he followed the guys because they’d been hitting on some women and he feared for their safety.” I blow out a breath and mentally calculate how long before my savings will run out if I can’t find another job right away. Austin will never throw me out, but I need to pay my own way.
“Interesting. Would you be opposed to my looking through your phone?” He holds his hand out, assuming I’ll comply, and I do after I unlock it.
He quickly scrolls through several things on my home page. “In the team group chat, you asked for Mr. Brant’s number.” He raises his gaze, waiting for me to explain.
“Yes. After we left, we were afraid Rhys might keep following those guys and run into trouble. You know Ace would blame himself if something bad happened, so I asked for Rhys’s number so Ace could text him.”
“And you did not text Rhys Brant yourself,” he says sharply, more like a challenge than a question.
“No, sir. Ace had his number from the group chat so there wasn’t a need for me to contact Brant. Ace is Tinny in my contacts. A nickname from middle school,” I add at his raised eyebrow and glance at the logo on my shirt. Players have slightly different gear than the staff.
“What social media do you have?” he asks, and I list the apps I have on my phone.
He scrolls and when he seems satisfied, he returns my phone.
“I won’t let outsiders dictate who I employ, but I am going to follow company policy. This situation has been blown out of proportion, and I’ll do everything I can to minimize the impact on you. But Dumas is pressing charges, and per your contract, I have to suspend you until the issue is resolved. You’ll have to go down to the station to make a statement of self-defense, and I’ll send a lawyer with you.” He stands and reaches across his desk to shake my hand. “I’m sorry I can’t do more.”
“I’m not fired?” I ask. My head swims with questions that I’m terrified to ask.
“No, wait by Wes’s desk for the attorney to escort you to the police station. Here’s the card of the detective you’ll be speaking to. He’s expecting you.” He offers me the business card.
“Will I be arrested?” The insanity of the situation is beyond words. That little prick Dumas figures he can do whatever he wants.
“Not if I can help it.”
