Chapter Three
Maren
The first rule of interviewing athletes is simple.
Let silence work.
Most people hate silence.
Athletes hate it more because silence feels like losing control of the room.
Carter Vance hated it most of all.
Which meant today was going to be fun.
Professionally.
Not personally.
Personally, I had already considered faking a stomach virus and moving to another state.
Unfortunately, I had a fellowship, a deadline, a signed contract, and a mother who once told me that avoidance was just fear wearing comfortable shoes.
Rude.
Accurate.
I arrived at the media room twenty minutes early.
Tripod set.
Camera checked.
Audio tested.
Release forms in a neat stack.
Two chairs angled slightly toward each other.
Not too intimate.
Not too confrontational.
A water bottle on his side.
A notebook on mine.
The room looked calm.
I did not.
That was why lighting mattered.
At ten fifty-seven, Coach Adler appeared in the doorway.
“You ready?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the empty chair.
“Vance is not an easy first subject.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I met his gaze.
“Yes.”
Adler nodded once.
Not pity.
Good.
“I will not ask for personal history.”
“Thank you.”
“But if it affects his leadership, it affects my room.”
There it was.
The coach version of care.
Direct.
Useful.
Mildly terrifying.
“I am not here to damage his season,” I said.
“No,” Adler said. “But do not protect him from himself either.”
I almost smiled.
“That seems to be a popular request.”
“With Carter, it usually is.”
He stepped back.
“He will joke first.”
“I know.”
“He will joke second.”
“I know.”
“The third time, he might answer.”
I looked at the empty chair again.
“Then I’ll wait.”
Adler’s mouth twitched.
“Good.”
He left.
At eleven exactly, Carter knocked on the open doorframe.
He was holding two coffees.
Of course he was.
Navy Lakeview hoodie.
Dark jeans.
Hair still damp from showering.
Smile already in place.
Not full power.
Interview smile.
Approachable.
Photogenic.
Entirely useless.
“Media lady,” he said.
“No.”
He paused.
“Strong opening.”
“Try again.”
His smile widened.
“Maren.”
“Better.”
He lifted the coffees.
“I brought peace offerings.”
“I do not accept bribes before interviews.”
“They’re not bribes. They’re hydration with caffeine.”
“I brought water.”
“Emotionless.”
“Accurate.”
He looked at the two chairs.
Then the camera.
Then the release form.
His jaw tightened for half a second.
Gone.
“Wow,” he said. “Official. Should I be wearing a tie?”
“No.”
“Good. I own one and it has trauma.”
I held out the release.
“Read and sign.”
He placed one coffee on my side of the table.
Vanilla latte.
My old order.
My stomach tightened.
I hated that he remembered.
I hated more that some part of me warmed before I could stop it.
“I do not need that,” I said.
“It’s just coffee.”
“No. It’s not.”
His smile shifted.
Not gone.
Quieter.
“You still take vanilla?”
“That is not relevant.”
“No.”
“Then do not make it part of the interview.”
He looked down at the cup.
For once, he did not joke.
“Okay.”
He moved it to the far corner of the table.
Not taking it back.
Not pushing it toward me.
Just removing pressure.
Annoying.
Good.
He sat.
Read the release.
Actually read it.
That surprised me.
“What?” he asked without looking up.
“Nothing.”
“Banned word.”
I stilled.
“That is Mason’s thing.”
“It infected the house.”
“I see.”
He signed the paper and pushed it toward me.
“Do I get creative control?”
“No.”
“Final approval?”
“No.”
“Flattering lighting?”
“I’m not a magician.”
His grin flashed.
There he was.
Almost.
“Missed you too, Mar.”
I looked at him until the grin weakened.
Then I turned on the camera.
“State your name, year, and position.”
He leaned back.
“Carter Vance. Senior. Forward. Emotional support disaster.”
I waited.
His smile flickered.
He cleared his throat.
“Carter Vance. Senior forward. Lakeview State Wolves.”
“Thank you.”
“See? Coachable.”
“Debatable.”
He smiled again.
I checked the audio levels.
Perfect.
Terrible.
“First question,” I said. “What does this season mean to you?”
He gave the answer every athlete gave.
Last run.
Special group.
Great locker room.
One shift at a time.
Proud to wear the jersey.
Not false.
Just polished smooth from overuse.
I let him finish.
Then I asked, “What does it mean when you are not giving a quote?”
His eyes sharpened.
There.
“Still getting warmed up,” he said.
“I can wait.”
Silence.
He looked at the camera.
Then at me.
Then at the water bottle.
He unscrewed the cap.
Took a drink.
Stalling.
Good.
“It means it’s ending,” he said finally.
The words were quiet enough that I checked the audio level again.
Still good.
“What does ending feel like?”
“Like a weird question for a hockey feature.”
“Answer it anyway.”
His mouth curved.
“You always were bossy with a notebook.”
“Carter.”
The smile thinned.
He looked down at his hands.
Strong hands.
Scar across one knuckle.
Tape residue at his wrist.
“It feels like standing at the edge of a room I’ve spent four years trying to keep loud,” he said.
That was real.
Unfortunately beautiful.
I wrote it down.
He noticed.
“Good quote?”
“Yes.”
His smile came back.
“There we go.”
I looked up.
“And then you ruined it.”
The smile stopped.
Good.
I let silence work.
He looked away first.
“Sorry.”
The word arrived too fast.
Too broad.
Interview apology.
Not the one we needed.
But something.
I moved to the next question.
“Coach Adler described you as a player who changes the energy of a bench. Is that something you do intentionally?”
“Depends on whether he said it before or after calling me a circus fire.”
“Carter.”
His jaw flexed.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s intentional.”
“Why?”
“Because panic spreads.”
“And so does laughter?”
“Usually faster.”
“Is that leadership?”
“Sometimes.”
“And the other times?”
He looked at me.
I looked back.
The room seemed to shrink around the camera.
“The other times,” he said, “it’s hiding.”
There.
I felt the answer in my chest.
I hated that.
“From what?”
His smile flickered again.
Reflex.
He almost took the exit.
I saw the moment he decided not to.
“Pressure,” he said.
“Be specific.”
He huffed a laugh.
No humor.
“You always did that.”
“Did what?”
“Made the answer stand still.”
I did not respond.
Let silence work.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
The camera caught his profile.
No grin now.
“From being the guy people look at when the room gets bad,” he said. “If I can make them laugh, then I don’t have to know how scared they are. Or how scared I am.”
Good.
Too good.
I swallowed.
Professional.
Stay professional.
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes.”
“And when it doesn’t?”
He looked straight at me.
“People get hurt.”
The room changed.
No going back after that.
I should have moved to hockey.
Senior night.
Ridgeview.
Championship pressure.
Anything else.
Instead, I looked at the question in my notebook.
The one I had written yesterday.
The one that had followed me home.
“What does the joke protect?”
Carter went still.
Entirely.
No shoulder movement.
No shift.
No grin.
Just still.
For the first time since I came back, he looked exactly like the boy in the old hallway.
Caught.
Not because someone accused him.
Because someone saw him.
He stared at me.
“That’s the question?”
“Yes.”
“For the feature?”
“Yes.”
His laugh came out once.
Sharp.
Wrong.
“Feels personal.”
“It is relevant.”
“To hockey?”
“To you.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“For this project, it is.”
His eyes flashed.
There he was.
Not funny.
Angry.
Good.
Anger was at least honest.
“You’re going to make a whole feature out of me being emotionally defective?”
“No.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I am going to make a feature about a senior forward in his final season who uses humor as leadership and armor, and who has to decide whether the last version of himself at Lakeview is going to be the easiest one or the truest one.”
Silence.
His face changed.
Just a little.
The anger did not vanish.
It shifted.
Landed somewhere lower.
“You wrote that before I came in?”
“Some of it.”
His mouth moved like he wanted to joke and could not find one fast enough.
Good.
Terrible.
“I hate how good that is,” he said.
“I know.”
“Still humble.”
“Still accurate.”
He looked at the camera.
Then away.
“Can we take a break?”
“Yes.”
I turned off the camera.
The red light disappeared.
The room exhaled.
Carter stood immediately.
Walked to the window.
Hands on hips.
Back to me.
I did not follow.
Following would make it personal.
Not following was also personal.
Everything was.
He said, “I owe you an apology.”
My hands tightened around the pen.
There it was.
Too soon.
Too late.
Both.
“Do not do it because the camera is off.”
He turned.
“I’m not.”
“Do not do it because everyone told you to.”
His face shifted.
“So dinner committee got quoted?”
“Not directly.”
“Right.”
He looked away.
Then back.
“I am doing it because yesterday you said I remember, but I do not know.”
I stayed very still.
“And you were right,” he said.
Good.
Painful.
He walked back to the chair but did not sit.
“The showcase video,” he said. “The fall. The joke. The hallway.”
Every word careful.
Not polished.
Careful.
“I remember all of it.”
My throat tightened.
I hated that he said the right thing first.
That made the rest harder.
“I remember making the joke,” he continued. “I remember hearing people laugh and knowing immediately that it landed wrong. I remember looking at you and seeing your face.”
He stopped.
Swallowed.
“I remember deciding that if I made it feel small, maybe it would be small.”
There.
That was the wound.
Not the joke.
Not even the video.
The way he made my hurt something I was supposed to shrink so he could breathe.
“You did not stop them,” I said.
“No.”
“I asked you to.”
“I know.”
“You joked again.”
His eyes closed.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He opened them.
No smile.
No escape.
“Because if I said stop, I had to admit I started it.”
My pen pressed so hard against the paper the tip nearly tore through.
“And you let me leave instead.”
His face crumpled.
Not fully.
Enough.
“Yes.”
The word was almost a whisper.
“I let you leave.”
The room went very quiet.
There were apologies that could make things worse.
This one had not fixed anything.
But it had found the right wound.
That mattered.
I hated that it mattered.
Carter gripped the back of the chair.
“I am sorry, Maren.”
My name.
Full name.
Not Mar.
Good.
“I am sorry I made your pain a joke. I am sorry I let people laugh because it was easier than telling the truth. I am sorry I did not answer your message. And I am sorry I turned you leaving into proof you were dramatic when the truth was that I gave you nowhere safe to stay.”
My eyes burned.
Absolutely not.
No.
Not during a workday.
Not in a media room with fluorescent lighting and a man who had waited three years to become articulate.
I looked down at my notebook.
The page was blurry.
Very unprofessional.
Carter did not move closer.
Good.
If he had, I might have hated him.
Or worse, folded.
“I do not forgive you yet,” I said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He nodded once.
“I understand.”
Better answer.
Very annoying.
“And I do not want this apology to become the new joke.”
His brows pulled together.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I do not want you using remorse as proof you are better now.”
He absorbed that.
Slowly.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
“You have to live differently.”
“Yes.”
“Not at me.”
His mouth pressed together.
That one hit.
Good.
“Not at you,” he said.
I looked up.
He looked wrecked.
Not performing.
Not asking me to fix it.
That made it harder to stay angry in the clean, easy way.
I was still angry.
But not cleanly.
That was inconvenient.
I turned the camera back on.
His eyebrows lifted.
“We’re continuing?”
“Yes.”
“After that?”
“That was not the interview.”
“No?”
“No. That was the part you owed me.”
He stared.
Then, to my surprise, smiled.
Not the big one.
Not the shield.
A small, tired, real thing.
“Fair.”
He sat.
The rest of the interview was better.
Not easier.
Better.
We talked about Lakeview’s season.
The championship run.
Ridgeview.
Senior night.
What he wanted freshmen to understand.
What he feared after hockey.
That answer took him thirty-four seconds of silence.
I counted.
Then he said, “That I will not know who to be if I am not useful to the room.”
I wrote that down.
His eyes followed the pen.
“I hate your notebook.”
“It is mutual.”
“My notebook does not have feelings.”
“It has mine in it.”
He smiled faintly.
“That sounds like something freshman-year you would have said.”
I froze.
So did he.
The air shifted.
Not bad.
Not safe either.
“Maybe,” I said.
He looked like he wanted to say more.
He did not.
Progress.
At the end, I turned off the camera and removed the memory card.
Carter stood.
Then stopped.
“Was that usable?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Some of it.”
“That is ominous.”
“It is editing.”
“Same family?”
I gave him a look.
He smiled.
Softer.
“Sorry. Stole that from the domestics.”
“Do not call them that.”
“What should I call them?”
“People who have learned things you have not.”
He laughed once.
Quiet.
“Brutal.”
“Accurate.”
I started packing the camera.
He picked up the untouched vanilla latte from the corner.
“I should take this?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Then paused.
“Can I ask one thing?”
“No.”
He almost smiled.
Then did not.
Good.
“Are you happy you came back?”
The question landed somewhere I did not want examined.
I clipped the camera bag shut.
“I am happy I took the fellowship.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“It is what I answered.”
He nodded.
Not pushing.
Good.
At the door, he stopped.
“Maren.”
I looked up.
“No nickname?”
“Not unless you say I can.”
Unfair.
Deeply unfair.
The kind of respect that arrived late and still made itself visible.
“Good,” I said.
He nodded again.
Then left.
I stood alone in the media room for a long minute after the door closed.
Then I picked up the coffee he had left behind.
The cup was still warm.
Vanilla.
My old order.
I should have thrown it away.
I did not.
I took one sip.
Then hated us both a little for how good it tasted.
On my desk, my notebook was open to the question.
What does the joke protect?
I drew a line beneath it.
Then wrote the answer he had not said directly but had given me anyway.
A boy who thinks being needed is safer than being known.
I stared at that for a long time.
Then saved the interview file under his name.
Carter Vance.
Senior forward.
Lakeview State Wolves.
The easy smile.
The loudest laugh.
The one who finally stopped joking long enough to tell the truth.
Not enough.
Not yet.
But something.
And I hated that something could still matter.