We stare at each other, and the tension ratchets up another notch.
"Let me ask you something," he says. "Why journalism? Why investigative reporting specifically?"
"That's not relevant?—"
"You're asking about my motivations, my background, my relationship with my father. Fair is fair." He's not backing down. "Why do you care so much about exposing toxic culture in athletics?"
I shouldn't answer. This isn't about me, but something in his expression, genuine curiosity mixed with challenge, makes me respond.
"Because I was an athlete once. Soccer. Full scholarship, Division I track and I saw how the culture protected bad behavior. How coaches looked the other way when star players did questionable things. How women on the team were expected to just deal with comments, touches, attitudes that crossed lines." I meet his eyes. "I lost my scholarship to injury freshman year. Watching from the outside, I realized how much I'd normalized. How much everyone normalizes. So now I write about it."
He's quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching mine, for what I have no idea, because I learnt to hide that hurt away a long time ago.
"I'm sorry that happened to you."
"I don't want your pity?—"
"It's not pity. It's understanding." He runs a handthrough his hair. "You're right that athletics culture can be toxic. I've seen it too. Been part of it, in ways I'm not proud of, but I'm also trying to change it and your article made that harder."
"How?"
"Because now my team is defensive instead of reflective. They're circling wagons instead of examining behavior. You wanted to start a conversation, but you started a war instead."
The words hit harder than I expected.
"That's not…I didn't mean?—"
"Didn't you?" He leans forward. "You published during game week. Used anonymous sources who couldn't be verified. Wrote a headline designed to provoke. If you wanted reform, you could have approached me first. Asked for an interview before you published, but you didn't. You went for maximum impact."
"Because private conversations with people in power never work. They make promises, nothing changes, and the story gets buried."
"So instead you bury people publicly?"
"I exposed the truth." My voice is loud this time, because this interview was met to make him slip, but it’s not. It’s messing with me.
"You exposed half of the truth. The parts that fit your story." He stands. "You want the full picture? Fine. You're going to get it. Every practice, every meeting, every conversation. You're going to see exactly what this team is and when you write your redemptive series, you're going to have to reconcile what you expected to find with what's actually there."
"I'm not afraid of the truth." I snap at him, he’s not making me feel like I’m wrong.
"Neither am I." He grabs his bag. "Next interview is Thursday. Two PM. My apartment. We're going to talk about my actual philosophy on leadership and culture change, and you're going to listen instead of just looking for gotcha quotes."
"Your apartment? That's not appropriate?—"
"It's private. Professional. and it has my research for my senior thesis, which is directly relevant to your story." He's already walking down the bleachers. "Unless you're afraid to be alone with me?"
"I'm not afraid of anything."
"Good. Then I'll text you the address."
He leaves before I can argue.
I sit alone in the empty rink, my recorder still running, capturing nothing but silence.
That did not go how I expected.
***
Thursday morning, I'm still annoyed about the apartment interview.
