Page 135 of The Assist
The boardroom is the kind of room where bad news lives in filing cabinets and laminated agendas. It’s too clean, too quiet. The walls are bare except for the team’s crest behind Mike’s seat, like a badge of honour turned into a warning.
Ben walks beside me, cool and clinical in his grey tailored suit, the same look he wears when he’s heading into court. He carries my evidence in a leather folder, and in the other hand, his phone, already recording a timestamped log of the meeting.
We’re shown in by the club’s head of operations, an older man with kind eyes who doesn’t quite meet mine. Mike is already seated at the head of the table, his jaw clenched, and his posture stiff. Around him are three others, two board members and a representative from the legal team. Not one of them looks pleased to see me.
“Thank you for coming,” Mike says, tone clipped. “We’ll keep this short.”
Ben pulls out a chair for me but he doesn’t sit. He sets the folder down on the table and opens it, pulling out a printed letter and several pages of annotated documentation. His movements are deliberate, and slow. Unbothered.
“This won’t be short,” Ben says smoothly. “But it will be thorough.”
Mike’s brow twitches. “Look, I understand this is emotional,”
“It’s not emotional,” Ben interrupts. “It’s legal and it’s contractual. You can’t penalise my client for a breach that never occurred.”
One of the board members leans forward, steepling his hands. “It’s a conflict of interest. At best, it compromises her objectivity and puts the club at risk of accusations,”
“Which you’ve already faced from your own players,” Ben cuts in, looking up at the man like he’s dissecting a mediocre witness. “Danny Cain. Multiple formal warnings, which we’ve acquired through a Freedom of Information Request and statements from club staff. If you’re worried about PR fallout, you’ve had a bigger problem on your roster for months. But it’s onlynow, when two consenting adults have begun a relationship outside of professional hours that you decide to take a moral stance?”
The room shifts. Mike clears his throat. “Ben, this isn’t about morals.”
“No,” Ben agrees. “It’s about optics. So, let’s get into that.”
He paces slowly, hands behind his back like he’s teaching a class. “The clause in Mia’s contract, like many in the league, is a no-fraternisation guideline. It discourages inappropriate conductwhile on dutyor during club-sponsored events. It does not prohibit consensual relationships between employees outside of work, nor does it state any disciplinary action is warranted unless performance or behaviour is affected.”
He slides a document across the table.
“Section 6.3 of Mia’s contract. ‘The employee shall maintain professional boundaries with playersduring contractedhours and in the context of job performance.’ Nothing about what two adults do outside of that scope. Nothing prohibiting a relationship that began organically, without coercion or disruption to the team.”
Mike shifts uncomfortably. “But ithascaused disruption. The story’s gone public.”
Ben gives him a look of withering contempt. “Because someoneleaked it. Not Mia. Not Dylan. You’re punishing her for your own internal leak, which you have yet to investigate. So, unless you’re accusing her of breaching confidentiality, and I’ll remind you there’s zero proof of that, you have no grounds.”
One of the board members frowns. “The club has a reputation to uphold.”
Ben raises an eyebrow. “Then you should’ve dropped Danny Cain months ago.”
I glance up at him, and he delivers me the barest nod giving me permission to speak. So I do.
“I’ve never once let my personal life interfere with my job,” I say, my voice is quiet but steady. “I’ve worked double shifts, stayed late for treatments, travelled with injured players. I’ve earned respect in an environment that rarely gives it freely to women.” I look straight at Mike. “You know that.”
He doesn’t answer.
Ben taps the folder again. “We’ve included written statements from coaching staff, the team physio director, and three senior players, none of whom have raised concerns about Mia’s professionalism. In fact, they praise her clinical judgment and discretion.”
He lets that settle before his voice sharpens.
“Let me be blunt. If the club terminates her employment or pressures her into resignation without legal cause, we will pursue an unlawful dismissal case. And the headlines you’re trying to avoid? You’ll get them in spades. Front-pagecoverage of how this club punished a woman for having the audacity to love someone.”
Silence stretches.
One of the board members speaks finally. “Why bring Dylan into this? It’s not about him.”
“Of course it is,” I say. “Because people think I got involved with the star player to climb some kind of ladder. That I sacrificed ethics for proximity to power.” I swallow, then look each one of them in the eye. “I didn’t fall for him because of who he is on the ice. I fell for him in quiet conversations and the way he treats people when no one’s watching. And I did everything I could to keep our personal life separate from my work.”
Ben nods. “You’ve got two options here. Allow Mia to return to work without condition. Or face the court of public and legal opinion. And I assure you, neither of you will win that second one.”
The board members exchange glances. Mike’s fingers tap the edge of the table like he’s counting seconds.
