Page 9 of Faking It For Real

More players filed onto the ice, their skates making distinct scratching sounds that echoed through the arena. I lifted my camera, testing different angles and focal lengths. Through my viewfinder, I noticed one player who seemed to be directing the others, pointing and demonstrating specific movements.

I zoomed in. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his movements commanding yet fluid. The "C" on his jersey marked him as the captain. As he turned, I could see the name on his back: Wright.

So this was the famous Ethan Wright—the one whose name dominated the sports section, the NHL prospect, the golden boy of the Wolves. Even I, with my limited sports knowledge, had heard of him.

I had to admit, he moved with surprising grace for someone so large. Every motion seemed deliberate, controlled, powerful. There was something compelling about the way he commanded the ice, the way the other players responded to his directions. I found myself watching him through my lens, captivated despite my bias against "entitled athletes."

Through my viewfinder, I watched him execute what even I could tell was an impressive maneuver, weaving between other players to send the puck sailing into the net. His control was remarkable, his focus absolute. I snapped several shots in rapid succession, trying to capture that intensity, that single-minded purpose.

I was so absorbed in getting the perfect shot that I didn't realize how close I'd edged to the ice until it was too late. My foot slipped onto the slick surface, and suddenly I was frantically trying to maintain balance while protecting my camera.

Everything happened in a blur—my arms pinwheeling, the captain swerving sharply to avoid me, the sickening sound of him crashing into the boards, and the collective gasp from everyone in the arena.

Oh god. I'd just caused the star player to crash during practice. On my first day.

This was not going to end well.

Chapter 3: Ethan

I was absolutely nailing practice. Every pass connected with laser precision, every shot found its target, every defensive maneuver executed exactly as Coach had diagrammed. I could feel the Pittsburgh scout watching from the stands, and for once, the pressure was fueling me rather than weighing me down.

This was my moment. This was what I'd been working toward since I was five years old, wobbling on my first pair of skates while my father barked instructions from the sidelines. All those years, all those early mornings, all those sacrifices—they were about to pay off.

I gathered our forward line to demonstrate a new passing sequence, hyperaware of the scout's notebook and pen. Just as I was about to start the drill, a flash of movement caught the corner of my eye.

Someone was on the ice. Not a player—a girl in regular shoes, clutching a camera, looking horrified as she started to slip.

Direct collision course with my demonstration. With the scout watching.

I swerved hard, overcompensated, lost my edge, and went careening into the boards with a bone-jarring impact that knocked the wind from my lungs. The crash echoed through the arena, followed by a moment of complete silence.

Pain radiated through my shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the hot wave of embarrassment and anger that surged through me. I pulled myself up, vaguely aware of Coach Alvarez blowing his whistle to stop practice.

The woman was standing frozen at the edge of the ice, still clutching her camera like it was a lifeline. I skated over, my temper barely in check.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I demanded, voice sharper than the blades on my skates.

Instead of apologizing, she clutched her camera protectively to her chest, like I was the threat here. "I—I didn't realize—"

"You didn't realize the ice rink was made of ice? You didn't realize that walking onto an active practice in street shoes might be dangerous? You didn't realize you could have ruined my entire career with your stupidity?"

Her shock morphed rapidly into indignation. "Excuse me?"

"No, I won't excuse you," I snapped, acutely aware that every eye in the arena was on us, including the scout's. "Do you have any idea what's at stake here? That was a Pittsburgh scout watching me crash into the boards because you couldn't stay where you belonged!"

Her eyes—large, brown, and now flashing with anger—narrowed. "Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt the great Ethan Wright's path to glory. Heaven forbid anything interfere with your divine right to NHL stardom."

I blinked, taken aback by the direct hit. "You know who I am?"

"Everyone knows who you are," she shot back. "It's impossible to miss when your name is plastered across campus like you're some kind of god instead of just a guy who's good at hitting a piece of rubber with a stick."

I felt my teammates edging closer, no doubt enjoying the spectacle. My ears burned, but I was too angry to back down.

"At least I know what I'm doing on the ice," I retorted. "Unlike some people who can't even grasp the basic concept that ice is slippery."

"And at least I don't think the entire world revolves around me and my precious hockey career." She took a step closer, apparently unconcerned that I towered over her. "News flash, Wright: One disrupted drill isn't going to destroy your future unless you're a lot less talented than everyone seems to think."

That stung more than it should have. "You have no idea what you're talking about. One mistake absolutely can cost everything. One moment of someone else's carelessness can end years of work." I was thinking of my father's career-ending injury, but she couldn't know that.

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