Page 17 of Faking It For Real

"Whoa," he said, genuine appreciation in his voice. "These are really good. You actually made me look semi-coordinated, which is a miracle in itself."

I smiled despite myself. "Thanks. I'm still learning the rhythms of the game, though. Sometimes I miss key moments because I don't anticipate the action correctly."

"I could help with that," Tyler offered. "Give you some pointers about what to watch for, common plays, that kind of thing. Might make your job easier."

His offer seemed sincere, with none of the condescension I'd expected. "That would be... helpful, actually. Thanks."

"No problem." He glanced over his shoulder to where his teammates were gathering their gear. "Hockey can be confusing if you're not familiar with it. But once you understand the flow, it's actually pretty beautiful."

I must have looked skeptical, because he laughed.

"I'm serious! It's like... a high-speed chess match. Strategy and skill and split-second decisions all happening simultaneously." His enthusiasm was infectious. "Did you notice that thing Ethan does before he makes a major play? That little head tilt to the right?"

"No," I admitted, intrigued despite myself.

"Watch for it next time. It's his tell. Means he's about to do something spectacular—a between-the-legs pass or a no-look shot. He doesn't even realize he does it, but after four years as his teammate, I've picked up on it. It's actually kind of endearing. This intimidating hockey star with this tiny, unconscious habit."

The observation caught my attention.

"I'll watch for it," I promised.

Tyler smiled. "Come on, I'll introduce you to some of the guys. They're not all as intense as our captain, I swear."

I followed him to where several players were gathering their equipment. To my surprise, they were welcoming and friendly, seemingly unbothered by yesterday's incident. Dylan wasn't there—in class, according to one of the players—but I met Sanchez, the left wing with a quick smile; Reyes, a freshman defenseman who blushed when we were introduced; and Jackson, a senior defenseman who served as alternate captain.

Through it all, I was acutely aware of Ethan on the other side of the rink, determinedly not looking in our direction. Every now and then, I caught his gaze flickering toward us before snapping away, his jaw tightening. The deliberate avoidance created its own kind of tension, and I found myself oddly hyperaware of his presence despite the distance between us.

"These are excellent, Mia," Mark said on Saturday morning, flipping through the prints I'd submitted to the paper. "Really captures the intensity of practice. You've got a good eye for this."

"Thanks," I said, surprised by the praise. Sports photography had been a necessity, not a passion, but I had to admit I was finding unexpected satisfaction in the technical challenges it presented.

"I want you to cover tonight's game against State," Mark continued. "It's our biggest rivalry, should be quite a match. Can you handle it?"

"Absolutely." I nodded, mentally reviewing my equipment needs for the evening.

"Great. The press pass will get you rink-side access—just stay off the ice this time." He winked to show he was joking, but I felt my cheeks flush anyway. Apparently, the story of my confrontation with Ethan had made the rounds.

"You'll never let me live that down, will you?"

"Not a chance," Mark grinned. "It's already become newsroom legend. 'The day Mia Navarro faced off with Ethan Wright and lived to tell the tale.'"

"Very funny." I gathered my bag. "I'll be there early to set up."

"Looking forward to seeing what you capture," Mark called after me. "State's goalie is apparently weak on his right side—might see some spectacular goals from our captain!"

I'd thought practice was intense, but it was nothing compared to the atmosphere of a real game. The arena was packed, the crowd's energy electric. I positioned myself at ice level, careful to stay safely behind the boards, my camera ready.

When the teams took the ice for warm-ups, the crowd roared. I focused on the Wolves, capturing their pre-game rituals—Tyler's bizarre stretching routine, Jackson's methodical skating patterns, Dylan's playful shoving with teammates. And Ethan, solitary and focused, taking shot after perfect shot at the empty net.

The game itself was a revelation. The speed, the skill, the raw emotion—it was captivating, even to someone who'd been determined to remain cynically detached. I found myself getting caught up in the flow, anticipating plays, holding my breath during close calls. My camera followed the action instinctively, capturing moments of drama and beauty I wouldn't have noticed days ago.

State scored first, sending a groan through the home crowd. The Wolves fought back, tying the game in the second period with a goal from Sanchez. The tension in the arena built as the third period began with the score still tied.

With ten minutes remaining, Ethan intercepted a pass at center ice. I saw it then—the slight head tilt to the right that Tyler had mentioned. My finger pressed the shutter release just as Ethan exploded into motion, weaving between defenders with breathtaking speed and control. He faked left, went right, and sent the puck sailing into the upper corner of the net with a shot so perfectly placed it seemed to defy physics.

The crowd erupted. Ethan's teammates swarmed him, their faces pure joy as they celebrated the go-ahead goal. And in that moment, my camera captured something I hadn't seen before—Ethan, his usual intensity momentarily replaced by unrestrained happiness as he was embraced by his teammates. His smile transformed his face, softening the sharp edges, revealing a version of him I hadn't glimpsed before.

I caught my breath, unexpectedly moved by the genuine emotion in his expression. There was something almost vulnerable about his unguarded joy, a glimpse behind the armor of discipline and control he usually wore. My finger pressed the shutter again and again, capturing the moment in a series of shots that felt more intimate, more revealing than any I'd taken so far.

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