Page 56 of Puck Your Friend
I glance over my shoulder and move to put on the new glittery-black Converse I got to go with the dress. I’ve never worn heels, and walking through the dirt and grass in them sounds terrible. So I went with practical.
My heart hammers as I get ready to meet them.What will they think of me looking like this?
Present Day…
The game is nearing the end, unless we go into overtime.
I’m getting coverage on rink side while Doug is up high in one of the private boxes, getting wide shots. It’s just the two of us capturing these games until the playoffs, if they make it that far.
I hope they do.
“You good?” He’s been checking in on me all night.
I press a finger to my ear so he can hear me. “Yeah. Getting more shots down here.”
The Bears are tied 1-1 with the Coldwater Rooks. It’s messy hockey: fast, physical, all speed and collision.
Hollister steps up on a two-on-one, steering the winger toward the boards and breaking up the rush. Ford angles back, tracking their center as Hollister resets. Teo and Tyrell are skating as his wings tonight. With Wes out, Tyrell is holding his own, even if his stride isn’t as fluid.
Logan pinches high, catches a drop pass from Tyrell, and fires a wrist shot that rattles off the bar.
Coach shouts for a shift change.
“Jesus,” Doug mutters in my ear.
Logan and Ford head to the bench. I hold for a wide angle of Logan as he takes a long drink from his water bottle, his hair’s soaked and his blue eyes locked on the ice. They’re playing like they’re already in the playoffs.
North takes over on defense, joined by Hollister on the right. Larkin replaces Ford at center. Teo and Tyrell stay on.
The Rooks scoop the rebound and push the other way. Their center cuts across, but Larkin backchecks hard and forces aturnover at the blue line. I swing my camera just in time to catch the recovery and the reset.
The pounding in my skull hasn’t let up since this morning. It’s behind my right eye now, a constant throb I can’t shake. But I keep the camera steady and focus tight on the play.
Larkin pivots, then sends a tape-to-tape pass to Teo, who flips it up the wall to Tyrell.
“Keep your eyes on Larkin, he might rush.”
I nod, as if he can see me. Then press the button. “Already on it.”
My fingers twitch as I fine-tune the focal ring. The scent of sweat and rubber cuts through the cold air. I track the frame through the small monitor mounted just above the grip.
Coach calls another shift. Larkin, Teo, and Tyrell skate off. Greer takes over at center with third-line wingers Ross and Jameson. North stays on at left defense, joined by Stratton on the right.
The play resets with a faceoff in the offensive zone.
Greer wins the draw clean. North catches it and swings it to Ross. He dishes it back across the slot, Greer catches it and fires. The rebound kicks loose and then North buries it.
I have to stop myself from jumping and screaming; we still have to film for the documentary.
The arena explodes. The bench surges up, sticks hammering the boards. I catch the full moment: Greer tapping gloves with North; the winger clapping his stick, and Stratton grinning through the sweat. Jace watches from the crease, then shifts back into ready position.
The scoreboard changes. 2-1, Bears.
My sweaty fingers slip against the cam housing. I flex my jaw and blink hard. Pressure blooms behind my temple. My stomach twists as I move toward the player tunnel, forcing the lens to be steady, even as my vision pulses at the edges.
The Rooks regroup fast. They’re organized, mean, deliberate. Their left winger cuts wide and fires.
Jace blocks it, body low and chest turned. He stays upright and clears the puck with a flick to Stratton.
