***
Friday afternoon, I pick Maya up from the road. She texted when she was thirty minutes out, and I meet her in the apartment parking lot.
When she pulls up in her beat-up Honda, the car our mom left her before she died I feel that familiar protective surge.
She gets out, and I barely recognize her. She's taller, thinner, her dark blonde hair longer than last time. Still wearing all black, her teenage rebellion phase that's lasted three years, but she's smiling.
"Hey, big brother."
I pull her into a hug. "Hey, yourself. How was the drive?"
"Long. Boring. Podcast-filled." She grabs her overnight bag from the backseat. "Your apartment better have good snacks."
"I bought those weird veggie chips you like."
"Then you're forgiven for everything."
We head upstairs, and I try to see my place through her eyes. It's cleaner than usual, I panicked-cleaned yesterday, but still obviously a college guy's apartment.
"It's very... you," Maya says diplomatically. "Boring but organized."
"I'm not boring."
"You alphabetize your psychology textbooks."
"That's efficient, not boring."
She rolls her eyes but she's smiling. "So. Tell me about the journalist situation. Your texts have been vague."
I give her the rundown while making us sandwiches. The article, the forced interview series, the tension.
"Have you been awful to her?" Maya asks, stealing a chip.
"Define awful."
"Carter."
"I've been... difficult. Not awful. I scheduled practices during her work hours. Made her come to my apartment for an interview. Gave her complicated answers instead of sound bites."
"So petty revenge?"
"Strategic difficulty."
"Uh huh." She studies me too carefully. "Do you like her?"
"What? No. She wrote a hit piece about me."
"That's not an answer."
"I barely know her."
"Also not an answer."
I set down my sandwich. "She's frustrating. Stubborn. Sees everything through this lens of 'athletes bad, culture toxic.' But she's also... smart. Actually cares about the issues even if I think she's wrong about the specifics."
"So you respect her."
"I guess."
