Chapter 3 #2
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?"
"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 your time. 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.
I shouldn't.
I really shouldn't.
I pull it open.
Inside, a stack of letters. All addressed to Maya Lynch. All in Carter's handwriting.
I don't read them, that crosses a line even for me, but I see enough to understand. He writes to her regularly. Long letters, not just texts. Old-fashioned correspondence. The kind of thing someone does when they're trying to maintain connection with someone who needs it.
I close the drawer carefully and leave the apartment.
On the walk back to campus, I think about everything I've learned today.
Carter Lynch is not who I thought he was. He's more complicated. More thoughtful. More-
No. I'm not going there.
This is a professional assignment. Nothing more.
But that night, instead of writing my usual cynical observations in my notebook, I write questions:
What if I was wrong about him? What if the culture is changing and I just couldn't see it? What if the story is more complicated than villains and victims?
And the most dangerous question of all.
What if I'm starting to respect Carter Lynch?
I close my notebook before I can answer that one.
Because respect is a slippery slope and I'm already on unstable ground.