Page 15 of Faking It For Real

I was so absorbed in examining the photos that I didn't hear anyone enter until a voice spoke directly behind me.

"Interesting composition in that one."

I startled, nearly dropping the print. Dr. Lawrence, my photography professor, stood examining the images over my shoulder. A tall woman with salt-and-pepper hair and perpetually paint-stained hands, she had a reputation for brutal honesty that made her praise rare and valuable.

"Thanks," I said, self-consciously rearranging the prints. "It's for the paper. I'm filling in as the hockey photographer."

"Hockey?" Her eyebrows rose. "That's a departure from your usual work."

"It pays," I said simply. We both knew that art rarely did, at least not at my stage.

Dr. Lawrence nodded, picking up one of the prints—a shot of Ethan just after he'd scored, arms raised in triumph, surrounded by teammates. "You've got good technical execution. The lighting is challenging in these arenas, but you've handled it well."

I felt a flutter of pride at her approval.

"But," she continued, setting the photo down and selecting another—the one of Ethan just after his crash, his expression a mixture of pain and fury as he glared directly at the camera, "you're not capturing the essence yet. You're documenting the action but missing the story."

"The story?" I repeated, confused. "It's hockey. They skate, they shoot, they score."

Dr. Lawrence smiled slightly. "Everything has a story, Mia. Even hockey. Especially hockey, actually—it's a sport of incredible passion and intensity." She tapped the photo of Ethan's angry face. "Like here. You've captured his anger, yes, but not why he's angry. Not the pressure behind the reaction, the vulnerability beneath the rage."

I frowned. "He was angry because I accidentally stepped on the ice and he had to swerve to avoid hitting me."

"Yes, but why did that make him so angry? What's at stake for him? What is he afraid of?" She regarded me thoughtfully. "A great sports photographer doesn't just freeze the action; they reveal the humanity behind it—the triumph, the desperation, the fear, the joy."

I wanted to argue that there was nothing particularly deep about a bunch of guys chasing a puck, but something in her words resonated with me. I thought about Ethan's comment about his father's career-ending injury, the raw emotion in his voice when he'd said one wrong move could end everything.

"I'm not sure how to do that," I admitted.

"Start by looking beyond your own preconceptions," Dr. Lawrence suggested. "You have strong technical skills, Mia. But to elevate your work, you need to find empathy for your subjects—even the ones you think you won't connect with."

She left me with that challenge echoing in my mind. Find empathy for Ethan Wright and his hockey bros? It seemed like a tall order after this morning's confrontation.

"He owes you a real apology, not... whatever that half-assed performance was," Olivia declared the moment the apartment door clicked shut. She shed her shoes and immediately claimed the threadbare armchair, folding into it. "God, what a morning."

"I thought you'd be angrier about Dylan challenging your article premise."

"Oh, trust me, I'm livid about that too." She shifted, a flicker of something else—curiosity—crossing her face as she tapped her chin. "But also... intrigued. A 3.8 GPA in Political Science while playing Division I hockey? Either he's lying, cheating, or actually legitimately smart, and I can't decide which is more disturbing to my worldview."

I laughed despite my lingering frustration. "Your worldview could use some disturbing."

"Excuse you. My worldview is perfectly calibrated for maximum journalistic cynicism." She paused, studying me. "You seem less homicidal than I expected after your showdown with Captain Hockey."

I shrugged. "I was fuming earlier, but I calmed down. Remembered our truce—professional boundaries and all that."

"Mmm, very mature," Olivia nodded. "Though personally, I was all set to help you plot elaborate revenge. I was thinking something involving a strategically placed banana peel near the hockey rink, or maybe a custom voodoo doll with tiny skates and a pompous expression."

"Tempting, but I need this job." I reached for my camera bag. "Want to see the photos I got before The Incident?"

"Absolutely," Olivia moved to sit beside me as I pulled out the prints. "Tell me you got at least a few good shots before the disaster."

I spread the photos across our coffee table, and Olivia leaned forward, examining them with genuine interest. She pointed to a shot of Ethan directing his teammates, his posture commanding, expression intense.

"He's in almost every shot," she observed.

"He's the captain," I explained. "And star player of the Wolves."

"No, I mean you focused on him. Even in the group shots, he's your subject."

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