Page 7 of Faking It For Real

"No problem."

"Oh, and Mia?" Mark added as I stood to leave. "This could be a good portfolio piece. Sports photography is technically challenging, but it tells stories. Action, emotion, triumph, defeat—all that human drama stuff that galleries eat up."

I nodded, though privately I doubted that photos of sweaty hockey players would elevate my artistic portfolio. But money was money, and right now, that mattered more than artistic purity.

"You're doing WHAT?" Olivia's voice reached a pitch I'd never heard before as we entered our apartment that evening. "YOU? Photographing the HOCKEY TEAM? The same hockey team you've been ranting about for three years?"

I dropped my bag on our secondhand couch and headed for the kitchen. "It's just photography. I'm not joining the cheerleading squad."

"Oh my god." Olivia followed me, leaning against the doorframe with an expression of unholy glee. “This is too perfect. Do you remember your sophomore-year manifesto— ‘overpaid athletes playing glorified games while real artists starve’?”

I winced, pulling a yogurt from the refrigerator. “I was drunk and furious. They cut the art budget to put fresh ice in the hockey rink.”

“Oh, and last semester’s masterpiece,” she continued, eyes alight. “‘Muscle-bound Neanderthals worshipped like gods while actual photographers can’t afford ramen.’”

"Are you done?"

"Not even close." She was grinning now. "I believe you also said—and I quote—'If I ever sell out to the sports industrial complex, please just shoot me and put me out of my misery.'"

I pointed my yogurt spoon at her. "That money is going to help pay our rent, so unless you want to cover my half this month..."

"Oh, I'm not judging. I'm just savoring the delicious irony." She hopped up to sit on our tiny kitchen counter. "So what's the plan? How does one prepare to photograph the sacred hockey rituals of the almighty Wolves?"

"Probably by learning something about hockey," I admitted. "I don't even know the basic rules."

"Don't look at me. The sum total of my hockey knowledge is that the stick should stay on the ice and the players should stay off the wall."

"Helpful, thanks." I pulled out my laptop. "Guess I'm doing research tonight."

"Ooh, research! My specialty!" Olivia clapped her hands together. "I'll help. First question: How many hot hockey players are there, and will you introduce me to them?"

I rolled my eyes. "Is that really your first question?"

"You're right. Too broad." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Revised question: On a scale from 'Greg from Art History' to 'That Guy from the Coffee Shop,' how hot is the team captain? The one with the brooding face from all the sports page photos."

"I have no idea, and I don't care." I opened a browser and typed "basic hockey rules" into the search bar. "I'm doing this for the money, not to ogle athletes."

"Yes, very noble," Olivia nodded solemnly, then immediately broke into a grin. "But if you happen to notice any particularly ogle-worthy specimens during your noble artistic pursuits, your best friend would appreciate that information. For journalistic purposes, of course."

"Of course." I skimmed the first search result. "Did you know there's something called 'icing' in hockey? And it has nothing to do with cake?"

"Shocking. Next you'll tell me that 'checking' isn't about making sure everyone's present."

"Actually, it's when a player uses their body to knock an opponent against the boards or to the ice."

Olivia's eyebrows shot up. "So it's just sanctioned violence on ice? Charming. Whatever happened to artistry over simply chasing a puck?"

"I'm choosing to see it as an anthropological study," I said, scrolling through hockey terminology. "Primitive tribal behavior in its natural habitat."

"Think they'll let you put that in the photo captions?"

"Ha ha." I closed the laptop. This was going to be more complicated than I'd thought. "I need to call my parents before it gets too late there."

Olivia nodded, understanding immediately. My parents were very far away, working multiple jobs to help support my education and my younger siblings' needs. Our catch-up calls were precious and carefully scheduled around their work hours.

I took my phone to my bedroom and sat cross-legged on my bed, dialing the familiar number. My mom answered on the third ring, her voice warm despite the obvious fatigue.

"Mia! We were just talking about you. Gabriel, it's Mia!" I heard shuffling as my father joined the call.

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