Page 58 of The Charlie Method

The cameraman scrambles. Marjorie stammers out an apology as the duo flees the locker room. The door swings shut, its thud reverberating in the ensuing silence.

“Thank God,” groans Trager.

Coach jabs his finger in Trager’s vicinity. “Shut up. I’m talking.”

After a short and snappy pep talk containing zero pep, the room empties out. Guys lumber into the tunnel toward the rink. I linger, grabbing my phone.

Still no message from Charlie. I guess that meetup isn’t happening. The shitty notion matches my foul mood.

I call my dad and get his voicemail. Of course. Anger sizzles up my spine as I call his assistant instead. Alessia picks up instantly. Of course.

“Will. What can I do for you?”

“I need you to pass a message to my dad,” I answer curtly. “He needs to tell his camera crew to back off.”

“Have they been intruding?” She sounds startled.

“Of course they have!” I snap, then lower my voice after I hear it bouncing off the walls. “We’ve got a game tonight. We shouldn’t be answering dumb questions, okay?”

“Will—”

I don’t even know what I’m mad about, so I just hang up on her.

Fuck.

Even when I’m only speaking to his proxy, my father never fails to make my blood boil.

The obnoxious interviews should have been the end of it. But no. Dad’s cameraman isn’t done with us yet. Turns out Dean Allen gave the dude permission to film from our home bench, a last-minute decision that sends Coach Jensen into a rage spiral.

I can’t focus during warm-ups, knowing the camera is zoomed in on every move I make. Knowing I’m the reason Coach is pissed. I skate hard, trying to shake the tension. The sound of the puck hitting the boards is usually a comfort, a reminder that this is my domain, but today it feels like a soundtrack to a disaster waiting to happen. Every time I glance over at the bench, I see that damn cameraman. I didn’t even bother learning his name, that’s how resentful I am of his presence.

Finally, the first period starts, and we hit the ice, the crowd roaring. We’re facing Harvard tonight, whose roster is phenomenal this season. A lot of the juniors who weren’t quite up to par last year have developed into goddamn superstars.

The first few shifts are a blur of bodies crashing, sticks clashing, and the puck ricocheting wildly across the ice. I try to ignore the camera, but I keep catching sight of it out of the corner of my eye, like a persistent mosquito I can’t swat away.

“Larsen! Get your head on straight!” Nick Lattimore barks as we skate by each other during a line change.

I’m fucking trying. I play on the first line with our co-captains, Case and Ryder, and our two best d-men. It’s a powerhouse of a lineup, and tonight we’re not gelling one bit.

For the entire period, we’re on our heels, Harvard sensing our lack of focus and capitalizing on it. They’re relentless, ambushing our net and peppering our goalie, Nelson, with shots. I hear Coach yelling from the bench, his frustration boiling over as we struggle to keep up.

“Move the puck!” he shouts as we try to break out of our zone.

Midway through the second period, I get the puck on a rush. Normally, this is where I thrive. Speed, instinct, pure adrenaline. But as I barrel down the ice, ready to make my move, the camera flashes in my peripheral vision, and I hesitate.

It’s just a split second, but it’s enough.

The defenseman reads my hesitation, stepping up to poke the puck off my stick, and before I know it, I’m colliding with the boards, the puck flying the other way.

“Motherfucker!” I snarl, slamming my stick against the ice as I hasten to get back into the play.

It’s too late. They have a two-on-one, and Nelson doesn’t stand a chance.

The red light flashes as the puck hits the back of the net, and the crowd groans its displeasure.

“Get your head in the game!” Coach bellows from the bench as I skate toward him. “That’s on you, Larsen! On you!”

I know it was, and it burns. I slam onto the bench, ripping off my helmet and running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. My chest is heaving, but not only from exertion. I’m livid. At the cameraman, at my dad, at myself.

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