They drill, and drill, and drill.
Ryan, Parker, and I navigate around the rink, and I do my best to keep out of the way while they man the rig and boom. This footage isn’t particularly interesting, but you can never have too much b-roll. Besides, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good to be shooting something again, even if that something is a sports documentary. I can’t remember the last time I was on set. When Coach moves the team onto puck and stick-handling drills, we capture those, too.
“Alright, I’ll need you all to step off the ice now unless you wanna get padded up,” Coach Marshall tells us as the players start setting up for a skirmish.
“Roger that,” I reply.
Ryan and Parker head for the door and I push off one skate after them. Turning to follow, I don’t see the fast-incoming puck to my left until my skate is landing on top of it. My knee buckles and I reflexively claw at Ryan’s shoulder to try and stay upright, but I pull him off-balance, too. Both of us tumble to the ice in a tangle of limbs and skates. I land hard on my leg, a sharp pain shooting through my ankle.
“Shit!” I hear someone shout. Coach Marshall’s whistle blows.
“Y’all alright?” Parker says in their Texan accent.
Wincing, I push myself upright.
“I didn’t think you’d be right behind me,” a player says. It’s number 71, Ricardo Morales—one ofthe forwards.
Ryan swears beside me.
My stomach bottoms out as realization dawns. “How’s the camera?”
“Not sure. Okay, hopefully. My shoulder took the brunt of the fall.”
I watch in horror as he toggles the buttons, testing the settings. I’ll jump off the Santa Monica pier and feed myself to Bruce the shark if I’ve managed to break that camera on day one. A pair of skates comes to a lazy stop beside me, the person blocking out the fluorescent rink lights, and I look up. My stomach drops the rest of the way down to my toes. It’s Falkenberg. He looks indignant, like this is exactly what he expected to happen. My cheeks burn.
“Have you hurt yourself?” he asks, not bothering to mask his irritation, his blue eyes cutting behind his visor.
I ignore him and look at Ryan instead. “Please tell me it’s fine.”
“I think it’s fine,” Ryan says, still ogling the lens.
Parker pulls him to his feet. Coach Marshall skates over, squatting down to my eye level. I brace myself for a berating.
“Are you alright?” he says instead. It’s a simple question, but for some reason it hits me right behind the ribs, stealing more wind from me than the fall did. My eyes start to sting. I blink the feeling away.
“I don’t think so,” I reply after a second.
“I’m so sorry. I was practicing a pass, puck got away from me,” Morales says. Then to Coach he adds, “It was an accident, I swear.”
“Don’t worry, Morales. I know what you look like when you’re out for blood,” Marshall replies, still squatting. “Maybe we need to rethink how we approach the whole shooting on ice thing.”
“We’re fine,” I plead.
Coach raises a brow at me but offers a hand to help me up. My gaze slides to Falkenberg, finding him scowling at me as I take it. Pins and needles shoot through my ankle the second I put weight on it and I nearly lose my balance again.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
A strong arm encircles my waist.
My upper lip curls, just as a sweaty, sour scent meets my nostrils. Falkenberg’s caught me. I try to shrug him off, but he tightens his already domineering grip, giving me a disinterested look down the point of his pale, austere nose. His hair looks damp under his helmet.
“You’re going to make it worse if you don’t stop moving, Hearst,” he says tightly, lacing my name with disdain.
“Did you roll your ankle, Freddie?” Coach Marshall frowns.
“Maybe. I think I landed on it.” What a perfect way to start this job. I look like a fucking moron—in front of the whole team, too.
“She’s likely sprained it. Possibly worse,” Falkenberg says.
