Page 70 of Take Two

A ripple of applause spreads through the arena as Kirk Stewart walks onto the freshly resurfaced ice carrying a microphone, his boots somehow managing to find purchase. He’s dressed in his usual on-set uniform, dark jeans, a worn Seattle Central hoodie that wardrobe made specifically for him, and the same baseball cap he’s worn every single day of production.

He waits patiently, letting the initial excitement crest and begin to ebb, until the crowd quiets enough for his voice to carry. “Morning, everybody.”

The applause grows louder, accompanied now by cheers and whistles that echo off the steel framework supporting the ceiling.

“First of all, thank you for being here,” Kirk continues, his tone warm and genuinely grateful. “You’re helping us film one of the biggest sequences in the entire movie, the championship game that everything’s been building toward.”

Another cheer echoes around the arena, this one sustained and enthusiastic enough to make Kirk laugh, the sound picking up through the microphone and bouncing back from the speakers.

“I know you’re excited,” he says, grinning at the response. “We are too. We’ve been looking forward to this for months.”

More laughter follows, this time mixed with scattered applause as the energy in the arena continues building.

“I’ve just got a couple of quick things before we get started,” Kirk says, shifting into a more practical tone without losing the warmth that’s made him such an effective director. “Important stuff, so listen up.”

He gestures toward the cameras already positioned around the rink, their operators making final adjustments while assistants check sight lines and angles.

“This is still a working film set, so there’ll be moments when I yell ‘cut’. When that happens, I need everybody to freeze where you are and stay as quiet as possible while we reset cameras or adjust the actors. It might feel strange, but it’s crucial.”

Heads nod throughout the stands, faces turned toward him with focused attention.

“The second I call ‘action’. . .”

He points directly toward the student section, where the most enthusiastic group of extras has been positioned specifically for their energy.

“. . .I want this place to sound like the loudest college hockey game you’ve ever attended. I want you to make these actors believe they’re playing for a championship.”

The response is immediate and overwhelming. The roar that answers him rolls around the arena like thunder, building and echoing until it feels like the entire structure is vibrating with sound.

Kirk grins, clearly pleased with what he’s hearing. “Perfect,” he says, pointing toward the crowd with genuine appreciation. “Keep that energy. We’re going to need it.”

Then he sweeps his arm toward the ice, where the actors are waiting, their nervous energy visible even from this distance.

“These actors have been training for weeks to earn this moment,” Kirk says, his voice taking on a note of pride. “They’ve fallen, gotten back up, worked through injuries and exhaustion, and learned how to play hockey well enough to make you believe they’ve been doing it their whole lives. Help them out. Give them something real to play in front of.”

“Let’s play some hockey.” He steps back toward the monitors clustered near the penalty boxes, handing off his microphone to a waiting PA.

The arena erupts, the sound bouncing off steel, glass and concrete until it feels like it settles somewhere inside my chest, vibrating through my ribs.

Across the ice, Jamie is already standing at center with the actors, making a few final adjustments before the cameras roll. He demonstrates a faceoff position one more time, his movements economical and precise as he shows them exactly where their stick blades need to be positioned. Even from this distance, he commands attention effortlessly.

Even from here, the confidence in him is obvious, the quiet authority that’s developed over weeks of patient instruction and careful demonstration.

A few weeks ago, some of these guys could barely stay upright on skates, gripping the boards like lifelines and shuffling across the ice with the uncertain balance of newborns learning to walk.

Now they’re flowing through passing drills with surprising fluidity, calling for the puck with voices that actually sound like hockey players, changing lines cleanly without awkward collisions or hesitation, firing shots with genuine confidence rather than hope, and moving like they’ve spent years playing together instead of weeks learning the most basic fundamentals.

That isn’t luck. That’s Jamie. Patient enough to let every actor find their balance at their own pace, never pushing so hard that confidence shattered but never accepting mediocrity as the final result. Demanding enough that ‘good enough’ is never actually good enough, always seeing the potential for one more improvement, one more refinement. Encouraging enough to convince every single one of them they’re capable of far more than they thought possible when they first stepped onto the ice.

Jamie skates toward the boards now, building speed before effortlessly hopping over them. He takes up position beside Kirk and the rest of the crew clustered around the monitors.

Just before he turns his attention to the technical aspects of the shot, our eyes meet again across the expanse of ice and rubber matting. Another nod passes between us, smaller this time but no less meaningful, another silent promise that neither of us needs to put into words before we turn our attention back to the jobs waiting for us.

Around the arena, cameras glide into position on their tracks and dollies while crew members hurry to their marks, clipboards and walkie-talkies in hand. Someone calls for quiet from somewhere near the production tent, and the excited buzz rolling through the stands slowly fades until the only sounds left are the scrape of skate blades across fresh ice and the low hum of anticipation hanging over the rink like electricity before a storm.

“Picture’s up!”

The call echoes from the first assistant director, alerting everyone that we’re moments away from rolling.