"Because you're—" I stop myself.
"A dumb jock? A stereotype? Exactly what you expected?" He's not smiling. "You made a lot of assumptions about me, Hayes. Based on my sport, my position, my background. You decided I was the problem before you ever talked to me."
"That's not true?—"
"Isn't it? When's the last time you interviewed someone expecting them to be good? To have nuance?" He sets down his coffee. "I read your other articles. You're talented. Your piece on financial aid disparities was excellent. Your investigation into campus housing discrimination was thorough and fair. But your hockey article? That was a hit piece and you know it."
I want to argue, want to defend my work, but he's not entirely wrong. I did go in assuming the worst. Did look for problems instead of solutions. Did write to expose rather than to understand.
But it was because of all the things that happened to me.
"Maybe," I admit quietly. "Maybe I was too focused on the negative, but that doesn't mean the problems don't exist."
"I never said they don't exist. I said you only told half the story." He leans forward. "Read the thesis. All of it. See what I actually think, what I'm actually trying to do. Then decide if I'm the villain you wrote about."
I take the manuscript. It's over a hundred pages.
"This will take days to read." I flip through the pages, and shake my head.
"Good thing we have weeks of interviews scheduled." He stands. "I need to head to practice. But take yourtime. Read here if you want, door locks automatically. Or take it with you. Just... actually read it. With an open mind."
"Why do you care what I think?"
He pauses at the door. "Because you have a platform. People read your work and if you're going to write about me, about my team, I want you to actually know what you're talking about. Not just what you assume.” He leaves, and I'm alone in his apartment with his thesis and a mug of coffee that's exactly how I like it.
I should leave. Should maintain boundaries.
Instead, I open the manuscript and start reading.
***
Three hours later, I'm still reading.
Carter's thesis is... impressive and uncomfortable. Because he's asking the same questions I am, from a different angle.
He interviews teammates about how they learned to perform masculinity. About the unwritten rules of being a hockey player. About the cost of vulnerability in competitive spaces.
He cites studies on hazing, on group conformity, on how power structures perpetuate themselves. He proposes interventions, peer accountability, mental health support, explicit culture training.
It's the work of someone who actually cares. Who's thought deeply about these issues.
Who isn't the monster I wrote about.
My phone buzzes. Text from Ivy:Where are you? You missed our study session.
Shit. I was supposed to meet them an hour ago.
Me:Sorry. Got caught up in research. On my way.
I gather my things, carefully placing the thesis in my bag.
As I'm leaving, I notice a sticky note on his desk,Call Maya back. She sounded upset.
Maya. His sister.
I shouldn't snoop, but I'm a journalist. Snooping is literally my job.
There's nothing obviously personal on his desk, just more research papers, practice schedules, a nutrition plan. But there's a drawer slightly open.
