I take a shot.
For compositional purposes.
He comes back up, rolls his right shoulder—then drops back down. Goes onto his back. Starts hip rotations with a fluidity that should not exist in a man that size.
I take another shot.
And another.
This is already embarrassing.
Then he goes into a full split.
I lower the camera.
I raise it again because I am here to work and not to stand in media row having a full internal collapse over a man I assaulted with a grocery basket less than twenty-four hours ago.
He leans forward into the stretch and his whole back shifts under the jersey.
Those arms.
Of course.
That tracks.
I put the camera down and look at the rafters for a second like there might be adult supervision up there.
Okay.
Fine.
I’m a professional.
He’s standing now, back in the crease, tracking a puck through the drill. Completely still before it comes and then suddenly not still at all, the save and the recovery and the reset happening so fast my brain misses half of it the first time.
I forget to shoot.
Just stand there watching like an idiot with my mouth slightly open and no excuse ready if anyone asks.
When I do finally hit the shutter, I’m photographing the wrong player.
Amazing, Nova.
Then, because my brain is committed to making this a terrible morning, Griffin Novak voice clouds my thoughts entirely.
The Cyclones are a joke.
Expansion team playing dress-up.
Kat threw her whole career away going there.
He said it over dinner six weeks in. Casual. Like cruelty only counts if you raise your voice first.
Using his own sister as a punchline about a team he’s already decided didn’t deserve respect.
That was the night I started paying attention.
Griffin.
