Chapter 1
Veronique
I may finally have a valid case for Justifiable Homicide against Mason Mashuechuk, he has pushed me over the edge. I have not slept for 48 hours, I am on my third Black Bomber energy drink today, I am so ready to be done with Mason Fucking Mashuechuk. I have been working non-stop to fix his shit, I might finally snap.
I am about to face a crowd of journalists, all eagerly waiting for me to make my statement. I didn’t trust Coach Levesque to do it, not that he’s a bad guy, but he’s got a habit of talking off-the-cuff and in these situations? That’s bad. Montreal Media isn’t quite the shitfire that Toronto is, but they will still shred the Org if things aren’t done properly.
They may also soon be reporting the headline of NHL Public Relations and Social Media Manager Stabs Player 47 Times.
We will see.
I step behind the podium, and a sweeping hush falls over the crowd of reporters, journalists, and the news team from TMZ for some reason. There’s a few major news outlets here, but they’ve never bothered me before. Everyone here knows who I am, and they know if anybody is stupid enough to step a single toe out of line, they will be dealing with me directly.
Nobody wants to deal with me directly, calling me mean is an understatement. Most people will call me a bitch when they think I can’t hear them. Some are brave enough to say I’m a stone cold cunt to my face. They usually regret that after.
I start in Quebecois, because fuck them, this is my province, “Bonjour. The Organization of the Montreal Meteors stands in full support of our Captain, Mason Mashuechuk. We do not agree with the arrest. As a show of good faith in response to the incident, the Organization will be donating 250 thousand dollars to the Montreal Women’s Shelter. In addition, Mason will be donating an additional hundred-thousand of his own funds.” I pause, and then I switch to English, “Mason deeply regrets his actions and will be reaching out to the NHL Players Assistance Program for help. At this time, he is not available for public statement. The Organization will now be taking questions.”
He’s not available because he is in jail.
I told Sportsdesk they could have the first question because I know their guy is not an idiot, so when he steps forward, I point at him. I am very glad I let him lead, because he asks, in good French no less, “…can you give us more information on the incident leading up to Mason’s arrest?”
Plus, all the questions were pre-submitted, I never do unscripted pressers. I rarely let Perrault, the GM, and Levesque deal with the Mason Did Something Stupid pressers because neither are good at them.
The first question is a great one, because it’s open-ended, so I can do my job of spin-doctoring Mason so he looks good, “At 01:30 Sunday morning, Mason had joined a close friend, Randy Lefebvre to collect her former roommate, Julia Levitt, from the home of Julia’s partner. Mason was asked along to help with heavy lifting,” Not entirely untrue, “when Mme Levitt’s boyfriend, David Saintreal, arrived on site. Mason came to the defence of Mme Levitt, and what followed was an altercation between Mason and Mr Saintreal.”
Nathan Marx from Netsports, gets the next question, “Mason came to the defence of Mme Levitt, can you elaborate?”
Putting extra emphasis on the allegedly, I reply in English, “Allegedly, Mr Saintreal had previously assaulted Mme Levitt. There had been several incidents between Mr Saintreal and Mme Levitt, for which Mr Saintreal had been charged Summary Assault with a weapon or causing bodily harm.”
The next hour has me answering the pre-submitted questions from annoying, ‘When will Mason be back on the ice?’ to absolutely brain dead, ‘Is Mason a feminist?’ In situations like these, I always vet questions. I don’t like any situation where I’m totally unscripted.
Also Mason is too much of an idiot to be a feminist, he probably doesn’t know what the word means. I’d be shocked if he could spell it.
After the hour is up, I get to go talk to Coach Levesque.
I step into Levesque’s office, which is covered in pictures and awards, he’s been coaching the Meteors for two years. As a player he’s won dozens of things, and he lead his team, the Atlanta Lynx to four Stanley Cups in six years. He’s a legend. Most of the players are wary of him, with his steely blue-eyed glare and his mustache. I am immune to the effect. Perrault is here too, his bald head shining in the fluorescent lights of the office as he leans on the wall beside Levesque, who is in his chair - specially made for his back.
I am not surprised to see Coach has gone a little greyer over the last 48 hours. What does surprise me is that there is a third person here. Mason is still in jail, and this guy, with his oily, slicked-back dark hair, grey suit, and Botox, is definitely not a hockey player.
I take a seat, “Salut Coach, ça va?”
Levesque’s fingers twitch, I know he’s probably aching for a cigarette even though he’s been quit for ages, and in English he says, “Veronique, this is Justin Marlow. He’s Mason’s agent.”
I tilt an eyebrow, “You’re trading him?”
Levesque’s eyes bulge, “God, no. We’d be doomed. No, I’m here to make you an offer, which hopefully you can’t refuse.”
I squint, “And Mason’s agent needs to be involved?”
The agent speaks, “Per Mason’s contract, the league is allowed to assign player housing if it is felt that it could improve their play, or in the case that their current housing situation becomes inappropriate.”
“Andrej, Connor, and JJ are fine, it’s Mason that’s the problem.” I say, and even I can tell I’m annoyed. I also like the threesome, as much as I like any hockey player excluding Eric.
I don’t even like Eric, he’s just fucking me.
“Exactly,” Levesque says, “Mason’s image is unfavourable to the ownership, especially to Mr Molcors. He would like us to clean it up. What I am willing to offer you is money in exchange for letting Mason move in with you.”
This time, both my eyebrows shoot up, “You want him to what? What in the name of fuck? You can’t be serious, you’re full of shit. Are you fucking kidding me?” I’m so shocked I swap to French.
The agent speaks again, “We are willing to offer you $35 000.”
I whip to him, “No.”
“Veronique, please, we need to make this happen.” Levesque says, I’ve never heard him desperate before and I’m not sure I like it.
“Hundred fifty K.” I state.
The agent barks a laugh, “Absolutely not. Fifty thousand.”
“One-twenty-five.” I counter. I do not know what I could possibly do with this money, it would be double what I make in a year.
The agent’s eyebrow manages to tilt despite the Botox, “One hundred thousand, plus you’d be paid the NHL living stipend of $1000/month.”
I look at Perrault, “I want this entrenched as a salaried minimum plus my hourly.”
Perrault’s jaw drops, “That’s quite the demand. Veronique…what if we do trade Mason?”
“Ha! Okay, trade your best player and fan favourite, and watch everyone riot in the streets. Molcors is an idiot, by the way, the fans love Mason. Those compilations of his freakouts get millions of views on YouTube.”
Levesque sighs, “Those are exactly why Molcors wants Mason to clean up.”
I manage not to smirk. I am the person who makes the infamous Mad Mashuechuk videos on YouTube. It started as something I wanted to do to be funny, I remixed footage of a game when he broke a stick over his knee from behind the bench, before immediately getting into a fight, to Mr Blue Sky. It took off, got like 20 million hits on youtube. I just kept doing it, and the fans love it! That first goofy remix took Mason from nobody defenceman to a superstar with a legion of fans who call themselves Hammergirls.
“I told you what I want to have him move in and to babysit him, because if I’m cleaning up his image, I will be babysitting him. We’ve agreed on the dollar amount, but Mason will not stay good without me. As long as I need to keep him from being an idiot, I want to be paid, and I want to be paid well. Entrenched salary, plus my usual hourly, plus the stipend. Think of it this way, with Mason on my leash, I won’t be doing as much overtime.” I refuse to let the mental image of Mason Mashuechuk naked in a leash come through my brain, because I have the supplies and the inclination for it.
I’ve always had this problem with intrusive thoughts.
The agent looks at me, deeply concerned, “How…how much overtime do you do because of Mason?”
I snort, almost a humourless laugh, “I work 75 hours a week most of the season.”
Levesque, who knows this, is stone faced, and the agent just continues looking shocked as he asks, “How?”
“Between the drunken bullshit and the fact that the fans love him? I do a lot of spindoctoring, and I do a lot of Masonposting.” I reply, “Should be giving me a cut of his sponsorships for all the hard work I do.”
The agent looks at me, sizing me up. I return his gaze with my usual flat, cold-eyed glare. It makes him smile, then he hands me a business card and says, “We’ll be in touch.” Then he stands up, adjusts his suit, and gives Levesque a nod, “Julian, Michele.”
Once he’s out of the room I look back at the Coach, “Anything else, Coach?”
“You do have room in your house, right?”
“Yes. What about Gorton Kent?” I ask of the President of the Team, suspiciously absent, but likely working on nefarious plans, as he does.
“He said whatever it takes within reason. He’d be here but he’s talking to Molcors so we don’t end up actually trading him. Mason will be released, they’re dropping the charges, later this afternoon. I’ll email you when we drop the bomb, we want it to be as seamless as possible so the boys are gonna get Mason packed up day-of. Basically a rug pull, but you know Mason…I’ll get some of the blackshirts to move the chairs out of the hallways.”
“Sounds good.” I reply.
I head back to my office, but not before stopping in the gym to find Eric. He always works out at this time if he’s not doing therapy things. I make my way through the underbelly of the arena, it’s always a little chilly down here but it never bothers me.
I’m almost at the gym when I hear the familiar, cheerful voice of the Rookie, his Texas accent is unmistakable, “Bon-joor Veronique! Com-on sa-va?”
I snort, “Hi, Connor. I’m good, thanks. You?”
“Je swee bon!” He says, which is actually close to correct, and I can’t help but let a bit of a smile hit my face as he asks, “Am I doin’ any better with the French?”
“You’ll get it, buddy.” I can’t bring myself to be mean to Connor Cannerman, he’s like a golden retriever puppy. He’s in his usual Meteors branded workout gear, he’s the only one who wears the stuff outside of games, but I kinda like that about Connor.
“I sure hope so, I am strugglin’ with it! I ain’t never spoken nothin’ but English and Espanol!” He says, shortening his stride to match mine as we both head the same way, “Just going to get my daily workout in, you lookin’ for Eric?”
“You got it.”
“Figured as much. You did real good at that press conference, I thought. Mind you, I don’t know shit from Shirley about dealin’ with the press.” He says, rushing forward to get the door for me.
“Merci, Connor, have a good workout.”
“De rien, Veronique!” He replies, then he starts warming up.
I cross the gym to find Eric watching himself in the mirror as he works on his traps. I watch him from the corner for a bit, but eventually he notices and smirks, “I see you admiring me, V. It’s cool, I know how good I look when I’m pumped.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, and ask in French, “Are you coming over tonight?”
He winces, “I wish you would let me help you with your accent, Vick, it’s so country-bumpkin. But yeah I’ll be over late. Nine or ten okay?”
“Yeah, sounds good. See you then.” I reply.
Connor frowns at me as I go, but he doesn’t say anything, he just gives me his usual wave. I wave back.
I find Andrej and JJ on the ice, like usual. JJ, our goalie, played defence until someone put him in the net and realized he’s much better there. He likes to maintain his skills out of the crease, so it doesn’t surprise me to find him chatting with Andrej and hitting one-timers at the net; he’s freakishly accurate. I whistle at them when I get into the benches.
“Hey!” “’Allo, Veronique!”
“Hey guys….so did coach already talk to you about Mason?”
“Ouais,” JJ says, he’s a native Montrealaise like me, and his deep voice seems to echo no matter how softly he speaks, “but he didn’t really tell us anything more. Do you even have space chez-vous?”
Andrej elbows him, “Of course she has space! Why would the Coach even ask her if she didn’t?”
I snort a laugh, “He just asked if I’d let Mace move in, we had everything negotiated before he got to the space part.”
Before JJ can start getting anxious, I inform them that I do have a spare room for Mason. I even have space for him in my office, if he has a desk.
They nod and Andrej says, “He’s a pretty big gamer, got a PC and consoles, so at least he’ll have a place for that.”
“Cool, I’ll text you both my address and let you know where my spare key is. That way, while Coach is dropping bombs on Mason, you can move his stuff.”
Andrej looks guilty, but JJ shrugs and says, “C’est bon!”
I roll my eyes at Andrej, “Stop looking like a hurt puppy! You two can’t control Mason.”
JJ tilts his head, his bottle-dyed blonde hair flopping into his face. He pushes it back, “And you can?”
“You’re questioning me, JJ?”
He skates back to the net he was shooting at with Andrej and starts gathering the pucks, “No, I was not!”
Andrej sucks a breath in through his teeth then blows it out through puffed cheeks, scratching his head in what I know is an expression of discomfort for him, “I’m not either! Don’t yell at me.”
I blink, keeping my face cold and flat, and Andrej adds, “God, don’t make that face at me either! Mason listens to you, anyway, he doesn’t listen to us!” Andrej starts skating backwards, “I’m skating away before you make me cry again.”
I smile, and I hear JJ nervously point it out to Andrej, who visibly shutters.
The thing with all these Hockey boys is most of them have never met a woman like me. Those who have…they know what I’m capable of and give me a wide berth, or they’re very cautious. Once they understand, they hear all the stories and, if they’re unlucky, they have to deal with me personally, they all fall in line. Andrej and JJ both know exactly what I am capable of. Cannerman’s grandmother is like me, so he’s more immune to my powers, but Cannerman is a human puppy, a very obedient young man. Mason is a thorn in my side, but he also knows that if he gets on my bad side, he will face the consequences.
As PR and Social Media manager, I am the one who makes these boys look good. If I so choose, I can also make them look very, very bad. I know all their secrets, I know all their little fears, their worries. I know the strings to pull that could leave any one of them without a team, or worse, traded to Buffalo with a big black mark next to their name that says ‘I am a problem.’
Like all rules though, there is, unfortunately, an exception. As I walk down the road to the Timmies by the arena, I think about this. For every secret I may know about Eric Laroux, he knows even more of mine. With Mason in my house, it’s gonna make things with Eric a whole lot more difficult. Eric doesn’t play well with what he perceives as a threat, and I know he will see Mason as a threat.
