Page 63 of Arctic Titans of Northwood U: Volume 3

“You nervous?” he asked, reaching for a handful of chips.

“No.”

He grinned. “Right. You look totally relaxed.”

The opening credits rolled before I could respond. A deep, dramatic voice filled the room, the kind of narrator who made everything sound like life or death.

“In the heart of Detroit, where tradition meets ambition…”

“Aw, man, we didn’t get Sean Bean?” Toby asked.

“What would Sir David Attenborough have done with this material?” Phoenix asked.

“Yeah, spending his one hundredth year on this earth narrating a puck-loving reality show,” Mason muttered.

The screen filled with sweeping shots of campus, the rink, our team in action. It looked cinematic, more polished than real life had felt while living it.

“…a new generation of Arctic Titans fights to reclaim their legacy.”

Cut to Phoenix in full captain mode, barking orders during practice. His face was serious, determined, everything the cameras wanted from their designated leader.

The narrator continued. “A lone pioneer breaking barriers in one of sports’ most traditional environments.”

Phoenix’s jaw clenched tighter. I knew that look. He was preparing for battle. “Fucking bullshit,” he said under his breath.

The montage continued, introducing each of us with dramatic flair. Toby racing down the ice, his freshman enthusiasm practically glowing through the screen. Mason delivering a bone-crushing check, his rebel status reinforced with every aggressive play. Damon was shown as a silent force, all business and barely contained violence on the ice.

Then Griffin appeared, flashing that devastating smile at some girl in the campus coffee shop. The editing made it look effortless, natural, like charm was something he exuded without trying. And he did. Damn him, but he did.

“Griffin Shaw,” the narrator purred. “The golden boy whose confidence masks a competitive fire.”

I watched Griffin watch himself, saw the slight furrow between his eyebrows as he processed his own image. He looked good on camera. Better than good. He looked like someone audiences would fall in love with.

“And Andrei Sokolov.” The narrator’s voice dropped lower, more mysterious. Being a third-generation immigrant, I was as Russian as any of them, but the framing was so on the nose that it only lacked the Russian National Anthem. They might as well have asked me to play myself with a Russian accent. “The enigmatic force whose Russian heritage and brooding intensity make him hockey’s most compelling mystery.”

“I’m not even Russian,” I muttered.

Griffin snorted. “Your grandparents were.”

“Both my parents were born in Chicago.”

“Russian bad boy sells better than suburban Chicago bad boy,” Mason called from across the room.

The show continued, weaving our individual stories into a semi-cohesive narrative that felt both familiar and foreign. They’d captured real moments, like Mason’s trash talk during practice, the team’s nervous energy before our season opener, casual conversations that had felt natural in the moment.

But the editing changed everything. Mason looked genuinely rebellious instead of just competitive. The anxiety about our first game felt manufactured, even though we’d already played and won that opener weeks ago. Every interaction was heightened, dramatized, turned into television.

Then came a segment featuring Griffin and me during one of our joint interviews. I watched myself on-screen and felt heat creep up my neck. The way I looked at Griffin was unmistakable. My eyes tracked his every movement, hung on his words, responded to his humor with an intensity that made my stomach drop. I licked my goddamn lips when he smiled. Or they cut that together for some reason. I couldn’t remember if I’d done it.

There was a moment where Griffin was explaining some play from practice, animated and engaged, his hands moving as he talked. The camera caught me watching him with complete focus, a half smile playing at my lips like I was seeing something the rest of the world was missing.

Which, apparently, I was.

Several teammates wolf whistled when the segment continued, showing more interactions between Griffin and me. The editing was deliberate. In every other scene, I looked exactly like what they’d cast me as: cold, controlled, mysteriously dangerous. But put me in the same frame as Griffin, and something shifted. I smiled more. I responded more. I became someone warmer, more human.

The worst part was trying to remember if this was accurate. Had I really been that obvious? Had I spent every shared interview staring at Griffin with barely concealed affection?

My heart hammered against my ribs. I sank lower in my seat and pulled out my phone, needing a distraction from my own face on the television.