Page 32 of Take Two

The call carries across the arena and immediately cuts through dozens of overlapping conversations. Crew members move into position with the practiced efficiency that comes from spending long days together on set. A camera operator adjusts his rig near the blue line while someone from wardrobe hurries toward one of the players to straighten a jersey that shifted during the last reset. The familiar choreography of a film set in motion never fails to fascinate me, even after years in this business. Near the monitors, the assistant director raises a hand and waits until every department signals they are ready.

“Blue Line. Scene Fifteen. Take Five.”

The slate snaps shut with its distinctive crack that somehow always manages to cut through the ambient noise of the arena.

“Action.”

A dozen players kneel around me at center ice, their attention fixed on the coach they are supposed to see rather than the actor standing in front of them. The ice beneath my skates feels solid and familiar now, nothing like the uncertain surface it seemed during those first few days of filming.

A week ago, I would have been thinking about every line before I spoke it. I would have been measuring every pause and wondering whether I had the rhythm right. Seven days of filming have a way of burning through that uncertainty. The cameras no longer feel intimidating. The constant movement of the crew no longer feels chaotic. Somewhere during the first week, Daniel Mercer stopped feeling like a role I was trying to understand and started feeling like someone I genuinely knew.

I clutch my clipboard to my chest and look around the circle, letting Daniel’s authority settle into my shoulders.

“We’re down two goals.”

Every player keeps his eyes on me, the beads of sweat sliding down their faces more from the heat of the camera lights than actual play. The arena lighting creates an artificial intensity that mirrors the emotional weight of the scene we’re shooting.

“We’ve spent months talking about discipline. We’ve spent months talking about trust. We’ve spent months talking about what kind of team we want to be when things stop going our way.”

A few shoulders straighten instinctively at the words, others look to each other in acknowledgment, while some keep their eyes locked on me with the focused attention that marks good actors who know how to listen in character.

“Anybody can believe in themselves when they’re winning. Anybody can feel confident when everything is going according to plan. Character doesn’t show up when life is easy.”

I point toward the scoreboard hanging above the ice, its digital numbers casting a faint glow across the upper reaches of the arena.

“Character shows up when you’re frustrated. It shows up when you’re tired. It shows up when you’re looking at a scoreboard that says you’re losing and you’ve got every reason in the world to quit.”

The arena remains silent except for my voice echoing slightly off the curved walls and empty seating sections that stretch up into darkness beyond the reach of our filming lights.

“You trust your training. You trust your teammates. Then you get back out there and earn the result.”

I glance around the circle one final time, making eye contact with each actor in turn.

“Now, let’s go play hockey.”

The players answer with a chorus of cheers before breaking the circle with the coordinated energy we’ve rehearsed dozens of times. Gloves slap against shoulders. A few of them shout encouragement at one another as they turn toward their marks, their skates scraping against the ice in a sound that’s become as familiar as my own heartbeat over these past weeks.

Then number thirty-seven catches an edge and nearly launches himself face-first into the ice. His arms windmill frantically as he fights to regain his balance, managing to stay upright but destroying any semblance of the controlled exit we’d been working toward. Damn it! I really felt my monologue during that take.

“Cut!”

The word echoes through the arena like a gunshot, and the scene dissolves instantly.

Everyone breaks character as crew members step onto the ice for a reset. A camera operator lowers his rig while someone from makeup makes a beeline toward one of the actors waiting near the boards. The transformation from intense drama to casual workplace happens with the flip of a switch.

Near the monitors, Kirk drags both hands down his face and lets out a long-suffering sigh. Considering how tight our filming schedule is, the stress is starting to show on the young director’s face. Dark circles have appeared under his eyes over the past few days, and his usually immaculate hair is beginning to show the effects of constant finger-raking.

“Oh, come on,” he says looking up toward the arena’s ceiling as if God himself is going to solve his problems.

Number thirty-seven, Trevor, I think his name is, manages to recover before he completely wipes out. The save is awkward enough that several players immediately start laughing, their voices carrying across the ice in a way that breaks the last vestiges of dramatic tension.

The young actor points toward his skates in protest, his face flushed with embarrassment.

“I didn’t fall,” he says as a few other actors continue to playfully tease him, their laughter echoing off the arena walls.

Kirk stares at him from across the rink. If he was a cartoon, steam would be shooting from his ears. His jaw works silently for a moment as he clearly struggles to maintain professional composure.

“You almost fell.” Another actor says from beside Trevor.