I'm sorry

I left the conference as I always do, as soon as the athletes leave. There’s never any point staying around to chat with the other journalists, and I want to start working on my story immediately.

As I left, the elated feeling from a great story in the making was oddly absent. I’d gotten just about the best possible outcome, normally I would be beyond excited, giddy even. Yet I felt nothing, just a result of the focus on my work I’m sure.

After all, if there was still work to be done, it would take my full focus and energy to create my absolute best.

The night sky above shone with the dim light of a crescent moon which would fade away in the days to come, what little light left soon to leave.

As I stared above, lost in thought about the night sky, I heard the sound of a door creaking open not far behind me, the door that the talent would use when they go to their interview. I dared not turn around, since I’d learned in the past that interactions at this stage were rarely friendly.

The footsteps behind stopped suddenly, before quickly resuming and getting closer at a faster pace.

Surprised, I turned to face whoever it was, worried it might be the coach coming to chew me out for upsetting her star player. As I turned, the sight of Ria Klein, her beautiful face illuminated partially by the slight moonlight which escaped my shadow. A shine ran in lines down her cheeks, a poor attempt to wipe away fresh tears.

An uncomfortable silence filled the air between us, the bitter cold keeping us present in the awkward moment when we locked eyes.

Just when I couldn’t take in any longer and opened my mouth to speak, she spoke up herself.

“Sorry, for earlier.”

I’d expected her to say many things, to yell at me, ask me why I’d said what I’d said, or even just use me as an outlet for her anger or disappointment from today’s match.

But not once, in any second of our shared existence, in any moment of our brief few meetings, did I expect those words to break the still, silent night.

“W-Why?” Was all I could manage. For all my years of experience weaving words in a manner few could manage, not one other word came to mind. Not one other word could summarize my thoughts so completely in that moment.

Using my questions to probe so aggressively was always a part of my job, a responsibility of a strong and capable journalist to not take the easy route. It’s caused many problems, and burned many bridges, but it's gotten results, and not once have I felt regret or remorse.

Yet in that moment, as she confidently held my gaze, not running away, not getting revenge, but even apologizing, I felt a twinge of sorrow, and even regret.

Why was she apologizing when I’d spoken in the manner I had? Why did she go out of her way to approach me when I’d have ignored her? Why do I care about any of this at all? Why?

“I’m sorry, for not answering your question earlier. You waited patiently to ask that, and must have prepared for the interview. So I’m sorry.”

She took a moment, steeling herself and taking a deep breath.

“There are a lot of places where I lack. This leadership role is new to me, and I have a lot of work to do to make up for my shortcomings, but that’s my responsibility. Despite this I have no intention of burdening my teammates with my leadership struggles, and intend to take today’s match as a lesson to help work on myself. To the keen eyed individuals who noticed these issues, I hope you’ll continue to pay attention to us through these growing pains.”

“There’s your answer, Liam Dean.” She said with a note of finality, and walked off towards one of the many dorms that accompanied the vague and uniform surroundings. As she went, her dark hair blew wildly in the newly present wind, and her figure became smaller and smaller as her walk turned into a jog, which turned into a sprint.

The cold wind blew ferociously, adamantly insisting that I leave, but I stayed. I stayed and watched as she turned out of sight, and stayed longer as the image of her running in the moonlight was fresh in my mind. Only when the image started to blur, unfocused, did I allow the wind to whisk me towards my car, towards my home, towards the article I had to write.

Hours later I sat in my chair, staring at the completed article on my screen, titled, ‘Soccer stars collapse at their biggest hurdle.” Hand hovering over the ‘publish’ button, still cold despite having long since escaped the winter weather.

As I stared at the screen, the normal nervous anticipation from posting my articles was notably absent. I reached once more to click the button, and once more my hand wouldn’t obey.

Deciding I’d try again in the morning, I surrendered and shut off my computer, heading to bed to ensure I got my much needed rest.

That night I laid awake for hours, trying to understand why I couldn’t post it. After all, I'd posted countless articles like this. The only difference I could think of was what she had said in the parking lot.

While drifting off to an uneasy sleep, the image of her apologizing swirled around in my mind, over and over.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”