Page 58 of Arctic Titans of Northwood U: Volume 3

The locker room buzzed with nervous energy and the quiet efficiency of a sound crew that had done this a hundred times before. Men in black T-shirts moved between our usual spots, testing equipment and marking down numbers on clipboards. The overhead lights seemed brighter than usual, casting everything in harsh relief.

One by one, we stripped off our shirts and stood still while assistants taped wireless microphones to our chests. The adhesive was cold against my skin, the small black device heavier than I’d expected. An older woman with graying hair and gentle hands positioned mine carefully, murmuring instructions about not touching it or getting it too wet.

“Microphone fourteen, Andrei Sokolov,” she called to her colleague, who made a note on his chart.

I pulled my practice jersey over the device, the familiar weight of my gear settling around me. Shoulder pads, elbow guards, gloves that had molded to the shape of my hands over two years of use. The ritual of dressing was the same, but everything felt different with that small electronic intruder pressed against my ribs.

Griffin caught my eye as he laced his skates, winking with the same careless charm that had gotten us both out of trouble more times than I could count. The gesture was so perfectly him that I felt my mouth quirk upward despite the anxiety coursing through my bloodstream.

The ice was a stage. Two camera crews had positioned themselves at opposite ends of the rink, their equipment sleek and unobtrusive but impossible to ignore. Additional microphones hung suspended above the boards, waiting to catch every grunt of exertion and scrape of blade against ice.

Jen Harding stood near the home bench, clipboard in hand. She’d traded her business blazer for a Northwood Athletic Department pullover, but her posture remained sharp and attentive.

“The locker room is being wired with microphones during these first recorded drills,” she explained to the cluster of players gathering around her. “We want to capture the natural conversations that happen after practice, so don’t worry about staying ‘in character’ once you’re off the ice. Just be yourselves.”

Just be ourselves. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Coach Neilsen stepped forward, his tablet gleaming under the arena lights. “Alright, men. Today, we’re running a staged scrimmage to showcase individual skills and team dynamics. I want clean passes, smart positioning, and aggressive play.”

Phoenix nodded, his captain’s armband catching the light as he raised his stick. “You heard Coach. Let’s show them what Arctic Titans hockey looks like.”

There was something different about Phoenix’s voice, a slight exaggeration of his usual commanding tone. He was performing already, leaning into the leadership role the cameras expected from him.

I gripped my stick tighter and tried to forget about the invisible eyes watching from behind the boards.

The puck dropped, and for a few blessed seconds, everything else fell away.

Hockey was muscle memory and instinct, the familiar burn of acceleration and the sharp crack of stick meeting puck. Griffin moved beside me with the same grace that had always made defending alongside him feel so effortless. A slight shift in his weight told me he was preparing to challenge an incoming forward. The angle of his stick indicated which direction he wanted me to cover.

We faced off against Phoenix and Mason on the opposite side, the scrimmage designed to highlight individual matchups and rivalries. Phoenix was fast, his edges precise as he cut toward our goal. Mason followed close behind, all sharp elbows and aggressive positioning.

Griffin intercepted a pass meant for Mason, his reflexes quick enough to catch the puck on his backhand and flip it smoothly to me. I absorbed the pass and swept wide, drawing Mason out of position before sending it back to Griffin in the slot.

The rhythm was intoxicating. Pass, skate, check, reset. The cameras became background noise, the microphone a forgotten weight against my chest. This was what I lived for, the wordless conversation between teammates who trusted each other completely.

Almost completely.

I pushed away the knowledge that I had been lying to Griffin for years. Not that he’d ever asked. Why would he? I had simply elected never to tell him that I had carved my heart out and stored it somewhere for safekeeping for a day that would never come.

Griffin’s laughter carried across the ice as he deked around Phoenix, the sound bright and uninhibited. He was enjoying himself, feeding off the energy of being watched and appreciated. His joy was infectious, pulling me deeper into the moment until I forgot why I’d been anxious.

I swept past the production team behind the boards, close enough to hear Jen’s voice cutting through the ambient noise.

“Watch these two,” she said to the producer standing beside her. “They’re gold together.”

The words sent an unexpected jolt through me. Gold. Like we were valuable and rare. I glanced at Griffin, who was setting up for another rush, his face bright with concentration and pleasure.

Maybe we were gold. Maybe this thing between us, this perfect rhythm of a lifetime of games, that made defending feel like dancing, was worth capturing on camera.

I threw myself harder into the scrimmage, matching Griffin’s intensity with a precision of my own. When he went high, I went low. When he pressured the puck carrier, I covered the passing lane. We moved like we’d been designed to complement each other. On the ice, at least.

Mason tried to muscle past Griffin near the boards, his shoulder dropping in preparation for contact. Griffin absorbed the hit cleanly, but Mason wasn’t done. He straightened up and got in Griffin’s face, his voice carrying clearly over the ambient noise of skates and sticks.

“That all you got, pretty boy? Maybe spend less time on your hair and more time in the gym.”

It was theatrical, over-the-top, exactly the kind of trash talk the cameras would eat up. Mason delivered it with a slight grin, playing up his assigned rebel persona for maximum effect. He was a head shorter than Griffin, and while nobody would ever be as beautiful as my big friend, Mason spent plenty of time fixing his hair.

Griffin just laughed, but I was already moving toward the confrontation. The instinct to defend him was automatic, coded into my DNA after years of yearning.