Page 34 of Take Two

By the time lunch is called, I am sitting on an equipment case near the boards with a sandwich in one hand and another bottle of water in the other. The arena remains just as busy as it was hours ago, everything is always in constant motion. Crew members move equipment across the concrete behind me with methodical precision. Somebody from wardrobe is hunting down an actor near the tunnel entrance, calling his name over the ambient noise. Production assistants weave through the bustle carrying clipboards and radios while the next setup is prepared with military efficiency.

Across the ice, Jamie is helping a group of players work through the sequence we just finished filming.

One of them stumbles through a turn as he tries to take a shot on goal, his form awkward enough that the puck sails wide of the net entirely.

Jamie demonstrates the movement again, his own execution flawless as he shows the proper weight transfer and follow-through.

The player tries it a second time and immediately looks more comfortable, his improved form sending the puck cleanly into the back of the net with a satisfying thunk.

I watch the exchange longer than I probably should. I can’t seem to help myself today. There’s something mesmerizing about watching Jamie teach, the way he breaks down complex movements into manageable pieces.

“Your eyes haven’t left the man all day.”

I glance over, startled out of my observation. Cameron is leaning against the boards beside me, eating his lunch with casual efficiency, watching the room like someone is going to jump out at me between bites of his chicken wrap. His posture is relaxed but alert.

“I’m not staring,” I mumble, mouth full of turkey and Swiss, the words coming out more defensive than I intended.

“Sure.” The roll of his eyes suggests he’s not buying my denial for a second. You wouldn’t think this man is my bodyguard by the way he talks to me, he’s more like my best friend these days, the only person in my life who doesn’t treat me like I’m made of glass or worth a certain dollar amount. If anyone is going to call me out on my behavior, it’s him. Maybe Julian, but he’s thankfully not here to witness my obsessive tendencies.

I take another bite of my sandwich, hoping the chewing will buy me time to think of a better response.

“He’s the hockey liaison,” I reply, as if that explains my constant voyeurism.

“Yee-aah.” Cameron nods once, drawing out the word with obvious skepticism. “The same hockey liaison you stopped to stare at in the middle of SeaTac like you’d seen a ghost.”

I sigh, knowing there’s no point in denying something he witnessed firsthand. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Nope,” he deadpans, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis.

I shake my head and take a drink of water, the cool liquid doing nothing to ease the heat creeping up my neck. The annoying thing is that he’s smiling with genuine amusement. The even more annoying thing is that he’s smiling because he’s absolutely right.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway.”

That finally gets his full attention. Cameron lowers his wrap and looks at me properly, his expression shifting from teasing to concerned.

“Why?”

I gesture toward the arena with its cameras and lights and controlled chaos.

“This is temporary, Cam.”

Across the rink, Jamie says something to one of the players that makes the actor laugh, his head thrown back with genuine delight. Jamie taps his stick against the ice and immediately starts explaining the drill again with infinite patience.

“Filming wraps in a few weeks,” I continue, trying to keep my voice neutral. “He goes back to his life. I go back to mine.”

For a moment, Cameron says nothing, just chews thoughtfully while his eyes stay fixed on my face.

The noise of the production carries around us. Somebody calls for a camera adjustment from across the arena. A forklift rolls through a service corridor somewhere behind the seating bowl, its beeping echoing off the concrete walls. The assistant director is already gathering people for the next setup, his voice carrying over noise.

“You know,” Cameron says finally, his tone more serious than it was moments ago, “you’ve already decided how this ends.”

I frown and look over at him in confusion, not understanding where he’s going with this. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’ve skipped to the last page before you’ve read the middle.” He gestures with his wrap for emphasis. “You’re so busy planning the ending that you’re missing the story.”

I stare at him, feeling suddenly dense as his words sink in. My brain has apparently left the arena entirely.

Cameron shrugs then gestures to where Jamie is standing on center ice, his figure outlined against the bright arena lights.