Chapter 4 #2
"You don't have to imagine. You're living every athlete's dream." There's no bitterness in her voice. Just fact. "Not everyone gets that lucky."
"Luck has nothing to do with it."
"No? You were born with size, speed, and coordination. Born into a family that could afford elite coaching and equipment. Born male in a sport that actually values and funds men's athletics." Maybe she is attacking me now. "That's not skill. That's luck plus privilege."
Maya's watching this exchange with undisguised interest.
"I work hard," I say defensively.
"I'm sure you do. But hard work plus privilege still equals privilege." She closes her notebook. "Anyway, I should go. Nice meeting you, Maya."
"You too! Hey, are you coming to the game tonight? You should. I'll be there cheering for my brother even though he's being weird lately."
"Maya—"
"What? You are." She turns to Lennox. "He's usually more fun. But this whole article has him stressed."
"I'm not stressed."
"You organized your psychology books by publication date last night. That's stress behavior." She stares at me a little longer than needed.
Lennox is trying not to smile. I can see it.
"I'll think about the game," she tells Maya. "Have fun this weekend."
She leaves, and Maya rounds on me. "Okay, so you're definitely into her."
"I'm definitely not."
"You got all defensive about the privilege thing. That's your 'I like this person but they're challenging me' tell."
"I don't have tells."
"Everyone has tells. Yours is getting extra serious and analytical when someone pushes your buttons." She grabs her bag. "She's coming to the game tonight."
"You don't know that."
"I do. Because she wants to see you play. She's trying to understand you." Maya starts walking toward the exit. "The question is, are you going to let her?"
I don't have an answer for that.
How can I like someone who wants to ruin me, without even knowing me?
Maybe I like her work ethics or the way she’s not scared to write something which will piss a lot of people off. But I don’t like her.
***
The rink is packed for our game against our biggest rival.
I scan the crowd out of habit, spotting scouts, checking the press box, locating Maya in the family section and there, three rows behind the penalty box, is Lennox Hayes.
She came. Yes I’m surprised.
She's still wearing that same puffy jacket, now with a Thornhill scarf that she probably borrowed from someone. She's got her notebook, but she's also just... watching. Like a fan, not just a journalist.
It does something to me. Knowing she's there. Is Maya right? Am I into her?
I get into position and wait for the buzzer to go off.
I play harder. Faster. Every hit is cleaner, every pass more precise. When I score in the second period, a wrist shot from the slot that beats their goalie clean, I don't celebrate like usual.
I look at the stands. At Lennox.
What is happening to me?
She's smiling. Actually smiling and for a second, it feels like she's proud of me.
Then I remember she's here to write about team culture, not to be a fan, and I refocus.
We won four - two. I got two goals and an assist. The team plays like a unit, supportive, aggressive, clean. Everything I've been trying to build.
After the game, media interviews are quick. Then I find Maya waiting outside the locker room.
"You played amazing!" She hugs me despite the fact that I'm sweaty and gross. "That second goal was incredible."
"Thanks. Ready to grab food?" I ask, because I could do with something, maybe even two meals.
"Actually..." She looks guilty. "I kind of invited Lennox to come with us. She was leaving and I caught her and asked if she wanted to join. Is that okay?"
No. It's not okay. Because having dinner with Lennox and my sister blurs every professional line I've been trying to maintain, and with her being there I can’t think straight because the only thing I keep thinking about is if her lips are as soft as they look.
But Maya's looking at me with those hopeful eyes, and I can't say no to her.
"Yeah. Sure. That's fine."
"You're the best!" She bounces on her toes. "She's waiting by the south entrance."
We find Lennox exactly where Maya said, looking uncertain.
"You don't have to come," I say immediately. "If it's weird or crosses professional boundaries—"
"It's just dinner," Lennox interrupts. "And your sister's really nice. I'd like to get to know her better."
"See, it's fine." Maya loops her arm through Lennox's. "Come on. Carter knows this great pizza place off campus. Their breadsticks are life-changing."
We end up at Antonio's, a hole-in-the-wall place that's been a Thornhill staple for decades. It's loud and crowded and smells like garlic and cheese.
Perfect.
We get a booth in the back, Maya and Lennox on one side, me on the other.
"So," Maya says once we've ordered. "Lennox was telling me about her journalism program. Did you know she wants to do sports journalism for a major publication?"
"I didn't." I look at Lennox. "Which publication?"
"ESPN, ideally. Or The Athletic. Somewhere that takes women's sports and culture seriously." She fidgets with her napkin. "That's why your thesis interested me. You're asking the same questions I am, just from inside the system."
"And you think the system can be changed from inside?" I ask. A part of me didn’t think she would read it all, but the way she’s talking about it, she did. She spent the time and really read it.
"I don't know. Can it?"
"I'm trying to find out." The waiter brings our drinks and I take a sip. "But it's harder than I expected. People resist change. Especially when they benefit from the status quo."
"That's what power structures do," Lennox says. "Perpetuate themselves. It takes either massive external pressure or internal rebellion to shift them."
"And you think articles like yours are the external pressure?" Maybe not the question, but I never said I would make it easy for her.
"I think accountability is necessary. Sunlight as disinfectant and all that."
"But what if the sunlight is so harsh it burns instead of heals?” I say and her eyes snap to mine. We're staring at each other across the table, the conversation charged with something beyond just intellectual debate.
Maya clears her throat. "Okay, you two are doing that thing."
"What thing?" we say in unison.
"The thing where you're debating but you're really just eye-fucking each other."
"Maya!"
"What? It's true." She grins. "You've been doing it all night. At the game, in the car, now here. It's very obvious."
"We are not—" Lennox starts.
"Definitely not—" I overlap.
"Sure. Okay. Whatever you say." Maya sips her drink innocently. "But for the record? I approve. You'd be good together. Both stubborn, both passionate about the same things, both emotionally constipated."
"I'm not emotionally constipated," I protest.
"You write letters instead of having phone conversations. That's peak emotional constipation."
Lennox's eyes sharpen. "Letters?"
"To Maya," I clarify quickly. "I write her letters when I'm... processing things. It helps me think."
"It's actually really sweet," Maya adds. "Most guys his age wouldn't bother. But Carter's old-fashioned like that." And there she is my little sister trying to set me up with a girl she likes, but I shouldn’t.
The food arrives, saving me from further embarrassment. We eat and talk about safer topics, Maya's school, Lennox's classes, the upcoming tournament.
But I'm hyperaware of Lennox across from me. The way she laughs at Maya's jokes. The way she asks genuine questions and listens to the answers. The way she fits into this moment like she belongs here.
Like she's not just a journalist doing her job.
Like she's someone I could actually talk to, see more of.
That thought is dangerous. So I shut it down. Focus on being a good brother. On making sure Maya has a good visit.
But when we drop Lennox off at her dorm later, Maya insists she lingers at my car window.
"Thank you for tonight. For including me." Lennox looks at me, and why is it taking everything in me not to get out and give her a good night kiss.
Fcuk I’m screwed.
"Thank Maya. She's the one who invited you."
"Still. It was... nice. Seeing you outside the hockey context." She hesitates. "You were right. The story is more complicated than I made it seem." For a moment she breaks eye contact from me.
"Does that mean you're changing your approach?"
"It means I'm reconsidering some assumptions." She smiles, and it transforms her whole face. "See you Monday. Practice observation."
She walks away, and Maya immediately starts.
"You like her."
"I barely know her."
"But you want to know her and she wants to know you. I saw it."
"She's writing articles about me. That's literally her job."
"She came to your game. Stayed for dinner. Smiled at you like you're not just a source." Maya buckles her seatbelt. "Carter, I know you're scared. Of repeating Dad's mistakes. Of being vulnerable. But sometimes you have to take risks."
"This isn't about risk—"
"Yes, it is. You're risking that she'll see who you really are and decide you're worth it. That's terrifying. But it's also how relationships work." I say nothing to her, hoping she will stop talking about it.
I drive back to my apartment in silence, her words echoing in my head.
Because she's right.
I am scared.
Scared that if Lennox really sees me, all of me, including the parts I'm not proud of, she'll decide I'm exactly what she wrote in that article.
A product of toxic culture who's only performing change instead of embodying it.
But I'm also starting to hope.
Hope that maybe she'll see me differently. That maybe I'm not the villain in her story.
And that maybe, just maybe, I'm the protagonist in my own.
Even if I don't know how this story ends.