"I didn't paint you at all. I reported facts."
"Facts." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You interviewed three former players, anonymously and called it facts. That's not journalism. That's a hit piece."
"Those players had legitimate complaints. Hazing, harassment, academic pressure?—"
"All of which I've been working to change since I became captain, but you didn't mention that. You didn't mention the new team policies or the mandatory consent training or the zero-tolerance stance I've implemented." He climbs up one more row, and suddenly we're at eye level. "You wrote what you wanted to write. A story that fits your narrative."
"My narrative is the truth."
"Your narrative is 'hockey players are bad, toxic masculinity ruining sports.' It's lazy. Reductive and it's going to cost us recruits, sponsors, maybe even games because now our team is defending themselves instead of focusing on playing."
"If your team is more focused on defending a culture than fixing it, that proves my point."
His jaw clenches. "This interview is going great."
"This isn't the interview. This is me telling you that I won't be bullied into writing puff pieces that ignore reality."
"And this is me telling you that if you're going to write about my team, you better actually know what you're talking about." He pulls out his phone. "I'm sending you the practice schedule. You're required to attend. You want behind-the-scenes access, you're going to get it. Every drill, every team meeting, every conversation. You're going to see exactly what this team is really like."
"Fine."
"Fine." He turns to leave, then stops. "And Hayes? For the record, I don't need to bully you. You're going to bury yourself when you realize you were wrong."
"I wasn't wrong." I shout as he walks away from me.
"We'll see."
He leaves, and I'm left standing in the bleachers, my heart pounding with adrenaline and something else I refuse to name.
This is going to be a very long four weeks.
***
That night, I meet Isla and Ivy at Ivy's room for an emergency debrief.
"He's an asshole," I announce, dropping onto Ivy's bed.
"We could have told you that," Ivy says, handing me wine in a mug. "All hockey players are assholes. It's like a requirement."
"He's worse than your standard asshole. He's a self-righteous asshole who thinks he's right about everything." I moan about him as I sip on my wine.
"So... exactly like you?" Isla suggests sweetly.
I throw a pillow at her.
"I'm serious. He's going to make this impossible. He's already trying to control the narrative, forcing me to see things his way."
"And you're going to let him?" Ivy asks.
"Hell no. But it's going to be exhausting."
"When's the first real interview?" Ivy asks, filling her glass again.
"Tomorrow. 6 AM. He scheduled it during his morning skate just to fuck with me."
"Six in the morning?" Isla winces. "That's evil."
"That's Carter Lynch." I take a long drink of wine. "But I'm not backing down. If he wants to play games, I'll play and I'll win."
