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"Of course not. But you're the one who has to not give them anything to make clips about."
Castel goes still. Don't give them a reason. I don't know how I know it's hitting him somewhere old, but I know.
"So this is how it goes," Moretti says. It's the first thing he's said. "Road trip starts Monday. Five games, ten days. Castel, you're rooming with Hale."
I put the coffee down on the edge of the desk.
"Coach—"
"Every road trip, the rest of the season." Moretti doesn't look at me. "Hale, he eats when you eat, he's in when you're in, he watches video when you watch video. He talks to media after you talk to media, and if he's going to say something cute, you know about it before the cameras do."
"I'm not a babysitter."
"You're the captain."
"I'm the captain of the team. Not of him."
"He's on the team," Pruitt says pleasantly.
"The veterans get singles. That's been the policy since—"
"Since before either of us worked here, I know." Pruitt spreads his hands. "Policy's policy, until it isn't. Owen, you've got a reputation. Steady. Reliable. Nobody's ever written a bad story about you." He pauses just long enough. "Until this month, anyway."
The office goes quiet. Nadia looks down at her tablet. Castel looks at me.
"That's not—" I start.
"I'm not saying it's your fault. God knows." Pruitt leans back. "I'm saying it'd be good for everybody if the story people are telling about you this season was 'captain takes the phenom under his wing.' That's a good story. Nadia likes that story."
"I love that story," Nadia says.
"And it gets the kid a guy in the room who's not going to hang a—" Moretti cuts himself off. His eyes flick to me, and I understand, all at once, that Gus told him about the tutu. Of course Gus told him. "Who's not going to make it harder," Moretti finishes.
Castel's head turns toward him. "Hang a what?"
"Nothing," Moretti says.
"You said hang a—"
"I said nothing, son. We're done here. Monday, eight a.m., the plane." He looks at me for one second longer than necessary. "Hale. Stay a minute."
Castel looks at me. Then at Moretti. Then he pulls his sunglasses back down over his eyes and walks out, and the door clicks shut behind him, and Nadia and Pruitt follow him a moment later, talking about a photo shoot.
Moretti waits until the hallway is quiet.
"Gus pulled the door log," he says.
I sit down in the chair Pruitt left. My knee thanks me for it.
"I told him not to."
"He doesn't work for you. He works for me." Moretti opens a drawer, takes out a single sheet of paper, and slides it across the desk. It's a printout. Two badge numbers, two names, two timestamps a few minutes apart, just before midnight on opening night. Brandt. Kowal.
"You threw it out," he says.
"Yes."
"You didn't tell me."
