Page 14 of Faking It For Real

"The photographer stepped onto the ice, I had to swerve to avoid her, and I lost my edge," I said carefully. "It was just bad luck."

"I'm not talking about the fall," Coach said, his voice dangerously quiet. "I'm talking about the scene afterward. The one where my team captain, the player who's supposed to exemplify leadership and maturity, publicly berated someone in front of an NHL scout."

I winced. Put that way, it sounded pretty bad.

"She could have caused a serious accident," I began, but Coach cut me off.

"She made a mistake. A rookie mistake by someone who probably knows nothing about hockey. You, on the other hand, made a choice to lose your temper."

I stared at the floor, embarrassment burning through me.

"The scout noticed," Coach continued relentlessly. "In fact, it was the first thing he mentioned when I spoke to him after practice. Not your excellent drilling before the incident, not your recovery afterward. Your temper."

My heart sank. "Coach, I—"

"Let me be crystal clear, Wright. ThePittsburgh Sealsaren't just looking for a player with a good shot and quick feet. They want someone who can represent their organization with professionalism. Someone who can handle pressure without cracking. Someone who demonstrates leadership and character both on and off the ice."

Each word hit like a physical blow. I'd screwed up, and I knew it.

"The scout wasn't impressed?" I asked, my voice smaller than I'd like.

Coach's expression softened slightly. "He wasn't unimpressed with your playing. You're still one of the best prospects he's scouting this season. But he did express concern about your... emotional control."

I nodded, accepting the criticism. "It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't." Coach leaned forward.

"I understand, Coach. I'll work on it," I promised.

Coach studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Good. Because from now on, your character is being scouted just as much as your slapshot. Remember that."

"Yes, Coach."

"Alright then." He stood, signaling the end of our meeting. "Go ice that shoulder. And Wright?"

"Yeah?"

"Make peace with the photographer. She's going to be around all season, and I don't need any more drama in my rink."

"Already handled," I assured him, relieved to have at least one piece of good news. "We've established... professional boundaries."

Coach snorted. "Professional boundaries. Well, that's a start. Now go get some rest. Tomorrow's practice is going to make today's look like a warm-up."

As I left Coach's office, his words echoed in my mind. Character. Professionalism. Leadership. All the qualities that went beyond mere hockey skill—the qualities that would determine whether I made it to the next level or became just another talented player who never quite reached his potential.

Somehow, infuriatingly, the image that kept coming to mind was Mia's challenging expression as she stood her ground, calling me out on my behavior. There had been something almost like respect in her eyes when we'd established our truce, something that made me unexpectedly want to earn more of it.

Chapter 4: Mia

I stormed into the photography lab, my mood still heavy from that morning’s fiasco. The camera felt like a lead weight in my hands as I replayed the rink scene: ice slick as glass, the crack of my fall, and Ethan Wright’s furious glare as he ripped into me in front of everyone. Humiliation flared in my chest, tangled up with a hot flush of embarrassment and a nagging guilt.

I hadn’t meant to step onto the ice—I’d been so absorbed in chasing the perfect shot that I forgot where I was standing. But his over-the-top reaction made it feel like I’d tripped him on purpose.

“Just perfect,” I muttered, settling into my usual workstation. The darkroom was deserted this early—exactly what I needed: solitude to develop my prints and unravel my thoughts.

I developed the morning's shots mechanically, my hands moving through the familiar steps while my mind continued to seethe. As the images emerged from the chemical bath, I was surprised to find that despite the disaster, I'd captured some decent shots: hockey players in motion, sticks flashing, ice spraying beneath sharp blades.

And then there were the shots of Ethan Wright. Before the incident, I'd been drawn to him as a subject. His command on the ice, the fluid power of his movements, the intensity in his expression—all of it translated beautifully through the lens. I'd captured several striking images of him mid-action, his focus visible even from a distance.

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