24. The Strategic Turn

Damage Control Looks Good on Him

Yost Awaits, July 14

I wake-up early and jump on my bike and head to Yost. The campus is gorgeous and when the weather is warm like today it is really a pleasure to ride. Heck, even when it is twenty degrees Fahrenheit is practically a spring day for a Canadian.

I keep my head down as two reporters lift their cameras near the entrance of the Old Barn. I ignore the shouted accusations and let the heavy doors boom shut behind me, muttering to the empty hallway about how Serbia—the Fortress, the flare, the chaos—has disrupted everything. The travel, the recovery, and the sheer exhaustion have shattered the rhythm I’ve build all spring.

Stepping onto the sheet, I can feel the toll in my legs. My response is sluggish when I push off my edges, the mechanics hesitant where they should be instinctive.

I tell myself it ends now. I start with easy laps to let my breathing find its pattern, fighting through the initial awkwardness until the muscle memory reasserts itself. Then I punish the ice with hard crossovers in both directions, carving deep ruts on the turns and driving explosive backward acceleration out of the corners. I focus on my gap control, pivoting and sprinting until my lungs burn, pushing past comfort into the zone where the engine actually improves.

“Better,” I say quietly, chest heaving as I circle near center ice. “This feels right. This is what coach expects.”

I move immediately into stickhandling, running figure-eights through cones at increasing speed—stickhandling in a phone booth—and firing quick-release wrist shots from bad angles. Then I move to the point, walking the blue line and hammering slap shots. I feel the shaft flex like a longbow and hear the gunshot crack as the blade strikes the ice, over and over until my shoulders ache.

I finish with technical edge work—power turns, mohawks, and inside edges under pressure—followed by lines, running on the ice with short, violent stabs of the blade until my legs are screaming.

By the time I leave the ice two hours later, soaked and shaking from the exertion, the reporters give up and wander off. Standing on the steps outside the arena, breathing steady in the quiet air, I finally feel the weight lift.

The Press Pack, July 14 - 16

“Melissa, what are you seeing on the feeds?” Hanna asks, her voice tight over the phone line as she seeks direction.

Melissa stands in the Chicago office, scrolling through another aggregator while she analyzes the patterns. “Recycled sourcing and static language,” she says, her tone clinical. “There’s no meaningful follow-up happening; they’re just copying each other, and the attribution never moves forward because the momentum collapses.”

She checks the data again the next morning. Seeing that the posting gaps remain unchanged, she opens the digital folder she assembles days earlier. She reviews it once, satisfying herself that nothing requires updating.

“It’s time,” she tells Hanna, her tone shifting from analysis to execution. “No interviews, no appearances, and absolutely no follow-up statements seeking attention. Distribute this to the designated outlets and then stop.”

“It’s circulating,” Hanna reports back to the office, monitoring the shift in real-time.

“Good,” Melissa says, watching the monitors. “Hit the official site, then the short list. I want speed and reach over control. Make sure the brief press release, the full bodycam footage, and the time-stamped timeline are visible. Include the Serbian MUP summary confirming he was never a suspect and the digital verification notes linking to the girl’s own posts thanking him.”

When Hanna asks if it should be emotional, Melissa shakes her head. “Neutral by design.”

When Angie Dawson calls, sounding stressed that the university is getting buried, Melissa keeps her voice steady. “Then coordinate with us, Angie. No independent statements. All requests route to the same factual response. The posture is silence and consistency.”

The strategy takes hold quickly. Hanna watches as independent journalists begin linking to the footage and analysts reference the timeline, softening the headlines.

“Disengage,” Melissa reminds her. “No replies, no corrections, and no arguments. Let the facts do the work.”

By midweek, the repost volume is dropping, and by Friday, the reporters and cameras clear out.

Touching Base, July 15 - 18

The notifications on my phone are a relentless stream, a digital firestorm that Melissa and Hanna are managing in real-time, but when Aunt Nancy’s name lights up the screen again and again, I know I have to answer.

“Just a second, Michael,” she says the moment the line connects, her voice breathless. “I’m putting you on speakerphone so everyone can hear you.”

The audio barely switches over before a torrent of high-pitched enthusiasm washes over the connection. “Michael! Michael, is it really you? Are you okay? When are you coming to see us?”

Mary and Ellen are shouting over one another, their voices bright and overlapping in that chaotic, unfiltered way only children can manage. They barely wait for answers, just delighted to hear a familiar voice.

“It’s really me, girls,” I say, unable to stop the grin from spreading across my face despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones. “I’m safe, I promise. Everything is alright.”

My reassurance only seems to wind them up further, treating my safety as a victory they have personally secured. Uncle Aaron’s voice rumbles in the background, a steady, grounding bass note beneath their treble. He doesn’t say much, but the warmth in his brief greeting tells me everything I need to know about where he stands.

I offer them the necessary confirmations—that I am healthy, that the scary stories on the news are just stories, and that they didn’t need to worry about their big cousin. Mary manages to wrestle control of the conversation first, her tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you talk to Emma yet? Is she okay?”

“Not just yet, sweetie,” I tell her, keeping my voice gentle. “But I’m going to call her very soon.”

Ellen cuts in before her sister can follow up, her priorities entirely different. “Are you skating again? Mom said you might not be skating.”

“I am definitely skating,” I promise. “I’m back on the ice already.”

A cheer goes up on the other end, loud enough that I can hear, and Aunt Nancy is laughing in the background. We let the excitement run its course until the adrenaline begins to fade, leaving a quieter, more vulnerable silence in its wake.

“Michael?” Ellen asks, her small voice much softer this time. “Were you scared?”

“I’m not scared anymore,” I say, giving her the truth she needs to hear.

We stay on the line a while longer as plans for a visit are shouted from three different directions, and I promise I will be heading North to see them as soon as the semester allows. Then I have to give them the instruction I hate giving. I tell Aunt Nancy that if reporters call, the family needs to stay silent. She agrees immediately, and Uncle Aaron backs her up with a firm grunt of assent that brooks no argument.

Before disconnecting, Aunt Nancy reminds me that it is never too early to start thinking about coming up for Canadian Thanksgiving. From the tone of her voice, it isn’t so much a request as a standing order.

I pull my laptop closer as the familiar Skype bloop tone chirps and hit the answer key, Molly’s face filling the screen, her voice a welcome shift to something smoother and more composed.

“You sound so much better,” she observes, the relief evident in her tone.

“I feel relieved,” I admit, leaning back against the couch cushions. “It clarifies things, going through something like that. I understand who is standing with me, and who isn’t.”

“That helps,” she says softly.

“It really does.”

We drift into an easy rhythm, trading updates on life and training. I tell her about getting back into the gym and how eager I am for classes and hockey to strictly define my schedule again.

“The work visa finally arrived,” I mention. “So the modeling contracts can resume.”

“That is fantastic news,” she says, brightening. “Perhaps we can find a way to collaborate in New York the next time we’re both there.”

“I would like that,” I say honestly. “And I want to see you before everything piles up again.”

“Then we will make sure to arrange a rendezvous,” she promises.

“We will.”

We say our goodbyes, the exchange leaving me feeling significantly more centered. The outreach doesn’t stop there, though; the phone keeps buzzing well into the night. Emma rings a bit later, breathless and launching straight into a rapid interrogation about my well-being, the investigation, and whether I am actually taking time to recover. The moment I mention I am already back on the ice, the tension snaps, and she laughs. Knowing I am sticking to my routine is exactly what she needs to hear.

Mitsy and Kiyomi breeze into the condo later that evening, bringing a distinct warmth that chases away the lingering solitude. I instinctively grab my laptop, my mind already gearing up for a debrief on business, but Kiyomi’s hand gently presses the lid closed.

“Absolutely not,” Mitsy declares, curling her legs under herself and claiming the corner of the plush sofa with a cat-like stretch. “No spreadsheets, no tales of woe. I want the other details. The festival.” She leans forward, eyes sparkling with that signature intensity, though this time it is purely social. “Tell us about the food, the noise ... and how it was, actually seeing Willow and Asuka again?”

The knot in my chest loosens at their refusal to treat me like an asset to be managed. I sit back, letting the memories of Novi Sad wash over me—not the grief or the panic, but the good parts. I describe the smell of charcoal-grilled pljeskavica drifting through the air, the physical vibration of the bass rattling the ancient stone ramparts of Petrovaradin, and the surreal, dust-choked energy of the dance pit.

“It was ... loud,” I admit with a genuine laugh, the memory of the reunion feeling brighter now that I am sharing it. “But it was good. Really good. Seeing them together, away from the pressure here? It felt like we could actually reconnect.”

For the next hour, we ignore the looming world of business, trading stories like normal people, grounding ourselves in the simple reality of friendship.

A text arrives from Kim a short while later. Glad you’re home. Take care of yourself. A simple red heart icon follows before I can even type a response.

I check my email and find two significant messages waiting. The first is from the Duke of Castile, his correspondence as thoughtful and cordial as the man himself. He expresses his gratitude that I am secure and, in that understated aristocratic way, emphasizes that his backing remains absolute.

The second is from the Queen’s Private Secretary. Lady Wellesley’s language is official, precise, and devoid of flair, but the genuine care beneath the letterhead is unmistakable. It is a subtle reassurance—an acknowledgment that I remain visible to the Crown, and that they are pleased I am uninjured.

Coaches, captains, and even Angie reach out, the approach is uniform across the board: support without expectations.

I finish the final call, feeling the adrenaline finally drain away to leave a heavy, comfortable exhaustion in its place, and prepare for sleep.

Rest comes swiftly, but it is interrupted by a gentle tapping on my bedroom door. I blink into the darkness to see Hanna standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light.

“Hanna?” I murmur, shifting up on one elbow.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Can I come in?”

She steps forward but hesitates, carrying an uncertainty she hasn’t displayed since moving here.

“I’m okay,” I say, anticipating the question.

She nods once, a quick, jerky motion. “I know. I just ... I didn’t want to be by myself tonight.”

“Come here.” I move over to make space in the bed.

She climbs in cautiously, curling up against my side and releasing a long, shuddering breath that sounds like she’s been holding it for days. She doesn’t need to say anything else. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, holding her close until her breathing steadies into the rhythm of sleep, long before mine does.

Dawn arrives gently, gray light filtering through the blinds.

Hanna is still curled beside me, warm and near. I extract myself carefully so as not to disturb her, dressing in silence. I pause only once at the threshold to glance back at her sleeping form.

I slide my car keys into my pocket and grab my duffel bag waiting by the exit. The Old Barn is calling.

Dolce&Gabbana

Bad Boys Get Paid, July 17 - 19

The atmosphere inside the executive suite of the Via Goldoni headquarters has curdled into a volatile mixture of exhaustion and hostility, as the entire campaign fractures under the crushing weight of its unmet deadlines. Voices clash in a discordant symphony of rapid-fire Italian and English while gestures slice through the conditioned air as the creative team circles the mahogany table, their irritation flowing unfiltered and toxic through the space. Alessandro Rizzi stands at the very center of the storm, knowing that the structural assets are secured and the locations in Taormina are finalized, yet he remains painfully aware that they are currently building a frame for a ghost.

Monica Bellucci has already cleared her schedule and expects a counterpart who can match her formidable presence, but every name the team throws onto the table crumbles the instant it is spoken—too refined and the visual goes lifeless; too recognizable and the focus shifts away from Monica; too conventional and the vision dies on contact. Alessandro shoves his chair back and rises, the motion sharp enough to silence the room as his patience is finally eroded by three hours of reviewing men who look like mannequins rather than lovers.

“This is not a romance novel,” he says, his voice cutting through the nervous murmurs of his staff. “This is hunger, it is conflict, and you are bringing me boys who look like they ask for permission before they speak.”

He turns his back on them to prowl toward his laptop, ignoring the mounting frustration of his art directors, and begins to hunt through the digital noise for something raw—something that possesses the requisite danger without sliding into disorder. The image surfaces halfway down the screen: a paparazzi capture of a young man moving through a chaotic terminal, and Alessandro feels the recognition hit him like a physical blow: the tension in his shoulders, the utter lack of performance in his eyes.

“This,” Alessandro says, spinning the laptop around to face the room. “This is the reversal.”