Page 29 of Coach Sully

“Yeah.”

Her response surprises me. “Wait, really? Like this one? Animals and stuff?”

She shakes her head. “Music.”

That, I can picture, she’s clearly passionate about music.

I listen to her go off about her plans for future documentaries and the different musical genres she finds interesting. She relays how subjects such as language and sociology affect certain subgenres and talks to me about the artists she wants to cover. The more I learn about her, the more I like her.

She asks me about hockey, not just what it was like or my favorite memories, but about the arena and traveling details, how people become Zamboni drivers, if the uniforms are itchy, and the thickness of ice we skate on. Some of her questions I don’t even have answers to. I never thought to ask. Her brain operates so differently than mine. It’s as if she wants to learn all she can about how the sport functions, not just my experience. It’s refreshing after years of: “What do you plan to do differently next time to win the game? How do you feel after scoring thatlast goal? Do you regret retiring a year before the Lakes won the Stanley Cup?”

When she asks questions about me, it’s things about me as a person. She asks about my family, what makes me anxious, what my favorite sandwich is, what songs are currently stuck in my head. We flirt, both of us walking the line of professionalism and joking. It’s hard to avoid it when I enjoy her company so much.

“Can we talk about the show for a minute?” I ask.

“Sure, what would you like to know?”

“What’s the point of it?”

She furrows her brow. “Entertainment, baby.”

“No, really though, like what is the show about?”

She nods, understanding what I’m asking. “The main story arc is you becoming a coach and your dating life, but as we film, little things will happen, and we’ll develop mini stories that branch out from that. This could be a few good or bad dates, your struggles between people you work with, team wins and losses, all the little drama bits.”

I hum, not loving the sound of that. “Do you make drama out of nothing?”

She finishes swallowing a bite of food. “Some producers are really into that, you’ll see it on a lot of competition shows, but I’ve always believed that it’s psychological abuse.”

“Wait, so the fighting you see on reality shows, it’s real?”

“A lot of times, yes. But it’s often created by producers.”

“How?”

She shrugs. “It’s easier than you’d think. It would be like if I handed you a piece of candy and said, ‘Don’t let anyone take this candy from you or I’ll kick you off the show.’ And then I walked up to your adversary and said, ‘We need you to steal that piece of candy from Sully, or we’ll kick you off the show.’”

“But instead of candy, it’s infidelity, greed, jealousy.”

She nods. “It’s sad. I believe you can still have reality TV without fabricating drama and traumatizing people, but maybe that’s just because I haven’t had my spirit broken yet. There are organizations out there, like the UCAN Foundation, that ensure production companies are following regulations and not abusing or exploiting cast members. But your show is mainly about you and the team. Your new career, the team you’re coaching, and how you’re balancing all of that with love. You’re dating one person at a time, so there won’t be competition between any of your love interests.”

“Are you going to edit what I say and take things out of context?”

“I mean, there’s always a chance that’s what they’re going to do, so just don’t say anything stupid. We won’t ever force you to say something you don’t want to. Occasionally, we’ll give you direction on what we want you to talk about, but everything you say is going to be unscripted. Your conversations are your own.”

I take a calming breath. This is all so bizarre.

“I know it sounds awkward now, and it might feel a little uncomfortable in the beginning, but after a while, you won’t notice the cameras as much, and it will become natural.”

“Do you think things will be weird between us?”

“Things are already weird between us.” She chuckles. “We’ll get over it. Producers work closely with talent—you’re the talent—because it helps foster mutual respect, which makes the whole production more successful and more fun. We’re a team. So, if you need to talk on the side or you’re feeling uncomfortable, let me know right away. We can figure things out.”

I smirk. “I’d say you’ve worked very closely with my talent.”

She gives me a shove and laughs. “Gross.”

“Those goddamn noises you were making weren’t gross.” I smile. Six months from now, I’ll be hearing them again.

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