"He's trying to control the environment," I tell Isla during our café shift. "Make me uncomfortable so I'm less effective."
"Or he wants privacy for a serious conversation," Isla suggests, refilling the pastry case. "Not everything is a power play."
"With Carter Lynch? Everything is a power play." Why is he making me so angry?
"You sound obsessed."
"I'm not obsessed. I'm professionally engaged."
"Right. Is that why you spent two hours last night googling him?" She smiles like she means something else, but she is wrong.
I had googled him. Found his father's NHL stats, his mother's obituary from when he was fifteen, articles about his sister's high school achievements. Nothing scandalous, but lots of context and maybe I'd spent extra time on the photos. The ones from games where he's mid-action, focused and intense. The rare candid shots where he's smiling, looking almost approachable. Not that it matters. I'm researching my subject. That's all.
"I'm being thorough."
"You're being something." Isla grins. "Just be careful. Sometimes the line between hate and other feelings is thinner than we think."
"I don't hate him. I just think he's arrogant and defensive and?—"
"Hot?"
"—problematic."
"That's not a denial."
I throw a dish towel at her. She’s not wrong, Carter is hot, very hot.
At 1:45, I leave the café and head to the address Carter texted me. It's an off-campus apartment building, nicer than anything I could afford. Of course.
I buzz his unit. He answers immediately.
"Third floor, 3B." The door clicks open.
I climb three flights of stairs, elevator's broken, naturally and find his door already open.
Carter's standing in the doorway, and he's... different. No hoodie, no athletic gear. Just jeans and a t-shirt that says "Psychology: Because everyone's crazy." His hair is damp like he just showered, and his apartment smells like coffee.
"Come in. Want coffee?"
I should say no. Should maintain professional distance.
"Yes. Black please."
He pours two mugs and hands me one, then gestures to his living room.
It's surprisingly normal. Couch, TV, bookshelf crammed with psychology texts and hockey biographies. A desk covered in papers. Walls bare except for one photo of him with a young girl, his sister.
"So." He sits on the couch, and I take the chair across from him. "My thesis."
He hands me a printed manuscript.Masculinity and Identity Formation in Competitive Sports Environments.
I stare at the title page. "You're writing about toxic masculinity."
"I'm writing about how masculinity gets constructed and reinforced in sports. How good people get caught up in bad cultures. How to change it from within." He sips his coffee. "I've been researching this for two years. Interviewing teammates, studying the literature, trying to understand the problem so I can fix it."
"You're... actually serious about this." I say in shock, because there is nothing else to say. For the first time, I have no words.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
