Page 71 of Take Two

“Rolling!”

Cameras begin recording, red lights blinking to life.

“Background!”

The crowd begins to stir, starting with small movements, heads turning, bodies leaning forward, hands raising, building the foundation of the energy Kirk asked them to deliver.

Kirk lifts one hand, holding the moment, letting the tension build until it’s almost unbearable.

“Action!”

The puck drops at center ice, falling from the referee’s hand in a perfect arc.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, in that infinitesimal moment when everything changes, I inhale deeply and center myself, drawing on years of training and preparation.

Cyaire Reed disappears and Daniel Mercer takes his place, a college hockey coach fighting against all odds to guide his team to the Frozen Four.

Chapter 18

Jamie

The puck hits the ice, and twenty men explode into motion.

The roar crashing down from the stands is instantaneous, rolling through Climate Pledge Arena with enough force to rattle the glass in front of me and vibrate faintly through the soles of my skates. For one disorienting second, I forget we’re filming a movie. My heart kicks exactly the way it does before opening faceoff on a packed Saturday night, adrenaline floods my system, nerves sharpen at the edges the way they always do when something real is at stake, as Seattle Central’s Red Hawks and Cascade State’s Wolverines collide at center ice.

“Let’s go, Red Hawks!”

The chant erupts from somewhere behind me, quickly spreading through the lower bowl until hundreds of voices are shouting in rhythm, building on each other, feeding off the noise until the whole arena feels like it’s breathing in unison.

“Let’s go, Red Hawks!”

“Let’s go, Red Hawks!”

Foam fingers bounce above a sea of red, black, and white. Homemade signs sway through the crowd, some of them glittered and hand-painted with enough enthusiasm to suggest whoever made them genuinely cares which team wins. A student section that didn’t exist three weeks ago suddenly feels like it’s been cheering together for years, like they have actual stakes in this game, actual history riding on the outcome.

I catch myself smiling.

I’ve played in front of sold-out crowds my entire career. I’ve heard playoff buildings shake after overtime goals, felt the ice beneath me tremble when eighteen-thousand people surged to their feet at once. I’ve watched momentum swing because a crowd decided to will a puck across the goal line through nothing more than noise and collective belief.

This isn’t that.

Every chant has been rehearsed. Every reaction has been discussed in production meetings. Half the crowd are extras who spent their morning in a holding area being coached on when to rise and when to groan. Honestly, some of them are giving the rehearsed extras a run for their money.

None of it’s real. Somehow, every bit of it feels real.

Our center wins the draw cleanly, pulling the puck straight back to the defenseman, who immediately swings it D-to-D, drawing Cascade’s forecheck toward the boards. Their winger bites exactly where he’s supposed to, committing too early and opening the middle lane. The breakout unfolds one pass at a time, five skaters moving together as though they’ve spent years building chemistry instead of six weeks learning where to stand and which edge to use when they stop.

I know every movement before it happens because I helped build it, and I still haven’t gotten used to that.

Hockey has always been instinct for me. You read the play. You react. You adjust in real time to whatever the ice is telling you, trusting your body to make decisions before your brain fully catches up. Every shift is different because every player on the ice is trying to solve the same problem before you do, and the whole game is just five skaters trying to stay one thought ahead of the other five.

This is different. This is choreography.

Every breakout has a predetermined purpose. Every line change happens on cue. Every dump-in, every controlled zone entry, every hit along the boards, every shot from the point has already been mapped out long before the puck ever touched the ice this morning. Even the mistakes are intentional, from the missed clearing attempt in the second period to the too-many-men call that sends Mercer to the glass in frustration. All of it scripted. All of it precise.

I know where every player is supposed to be before they get there. I know where the puck is supposed to go before it leaves the blade.

That’s still the part that amazes me.