Chapter 2
chapter two
“What’s the plan for today?”
Bennett Jackson risked a sideways glance at his camera operator in the passenger seat and followed the directions on his GPS to Burlington’s Sport U Arena, home of the Vermont Trailblazers.
Fowler Bugg, a wizened Hollywood vet who’d seen it all from behind the camera, as evidenced by the thick gray hair, quickly muted the phone hooked up to the car’s Bluetooth system.
“Didn’t we go over the plan with David yesterday? Why’s he asking again?”
“It’s fine,” Bennett said, biting off a sigh.
He’d landed in Burlington less than twelve hours ago and had already fielded three calls from his executive producer.
Four, now. He unmuted the phone. “We’ll be observing today.
Seeing where there are opportunities for us to insert ourselves into the Trailblazers’ practices and meetings without being too intrusive. ”
“It’s literally your job to be intrusive,” David said matter-of-factly.
Bennett ignored that. If he had to explain one more time that putting four camera operators in the locker room, as David wanted, would only cause the players to censor themselves, he’d lose his ever-loving shit.
Besides, according to the contract David had sent him, Bennett’s camera crew was banned from the locker room anyway.
Rectifying that was on his to-do list for the day.
“We’re still looking for the right storytelling approach,” he said, continuing with the same explanation he’d given David yesterday.
“Right now, all we have is a bunch of random footage from the camera crew we sent in last month, and it’s .
. .” He turned on the windshield wipers and tried to find a nicer word for boring.
“Uninspired?” David offered.
Bennett winced. Was that better or worse than boring?
As the combination director, editor, and associate producer, Bennett had been the one to send in the advance camera crew with instructions to film practices and games and, more importantly, interactions between the players.
So the boring, uninspired footage was on him.
But also on the Trailblazers because they had about a zillion rules about where Bennett and his crew could and couldn’t go within the arena. And if they couldn’t have the access to the players that they needed, the footage would continue to be boring and uninspired.
At which point, he might as well hang up his filmmaking credentials and call it a day. If a six-part docuseries about hockey wasn’t as exciting to watch as an actual game . . .
Then he had a problem.
“Sure,” he said, turning into the arena’s parking garage. “Uninspired. Which is why we’ll be observing practices and player interactions over the next few days, camera-free, to figure out the angle for the series and the best storytelling approach.”
“The angle is that they’re four-time Stanley Cup champions and that they’ve won the championship the past two years in a row. The story is that they’re the defending champions.”
The parking machine spit out a ticket. Bennett nabbed it with more force than strictly necessary, tucking it into the cup holder in the center console as the barrier arm lifted.
“That’s a story,” Bennett argued. “Not necessarily the story.”
“It’s also not the one you pitched to him,” Fowler muttered under his breath.
Bennett shot him a don’t go there glance as David said, “What was that?”
Fowler shot him a very clear are you going to shut him down or am I? look.
Amusement settling over top of his annoyance, Bennett backed into a parking spot. “Nothing. Listen, we’ve arrived at the arena, so I’m going to let you go. I’ll send you a progress update in a couple of days.”
“Tonight,” David said, the command holding a note of finality over the car’s speakers. “I want daily updates via email until I’m confident you’re taking this in the right direction. I don’t want a repeat of what happened with Chain of Command.”
Bennett willed the frustration out of his voice. “Understood.”
David hung up, but his lack of faith still lingered in the air.
“He sure likes to remind you about how much of a fuckup you are,” Fowler commented.
“Stop.”
“I’m just saying—”
Bennett stepped out of the car so he didn’t have to hear what else Fowler was just saying.
Bad enough that David kept reminding him about what a flop his previous documentary had been, but Fowler’s criticisms of David’s criticisms of him were beginning to turn into a cycle that would lead to impostor syndrome if he let it.
“I’m just saying,” Fowler repeated, catching up to him, “that you’re not the first person with a project under your belt that’s gotten panned by critics and viewers. Besides, David approved the final version of Chain of Command, so it’s partly his fault.”
“But it was my vision.”
“Well, sure, but—”
“Fowl.” Shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, Bennett turned to him. “I appreciate you having my back. Truly. But can we pretend Chain of Command doesn’t exist? It’ll be like starting fresh.”
Fowler’s expression turned skeptical, which . . . fair. Considering this was Bennett’s last shot before David dropped him as his go-to filmmaker and he had to find funding for his projects elsewhere, there was a lot on the line, not the least of which was his reputation.
He tugged the door open and waved Fowler inside, where a security guard checked their credentials before they stepped through a metal detector.
“You know,” Fowler continued when the guard waved them off, “you could be a little less agreeable.”
“I’m not being agreeable,” Bennett said, heading down a long hallway. “I’m doing my job.”
“All ‘yes, sir,’ and ‘no problem, David,’ and ‘understood,’ and—”
Hands on his hips, Bennett rounded on him, more exasperated than anything.
“Look. The next time your reputation is on the line, feel free to tell the person who holds the purse strings exactly what you think of them. In the meantime, we’ve got work to do.
” He turned in a circle, taking in their location.
Were the meeting rooms straight ahead or to the right?
“We’re lost, aren’t we?” Fowler said, his deep voice echoing in the empty hallway.
“What? No.” The first time Bennett had been here, Head Coach Madolora had given him a tour of the facilities.
But that had been more than a year ago, and while he’d been back since, the GM’s assistant had always met him at the entrance.
But Jennie was out sick today, according to an email from the GM, and although the GM had said he’d try to get someone else to meet them and take them where they needed to go, he hadn’t been able to guarantee it.
“It’s this way,” Bennett said, nodding at where the hallway curved ahead of them with more confidence than he felt.
“You still need to use the GPS to get from the airport to your mom’s house, don’t you?” Fowler asked flatly.
“She moved to a new city.”
“Yeah. Four years ago.”
“You’re very annoying today.”
Fowler grunted, his shoulders taking up ninety percent of the space in the hallway as he turned to—presumably—determine which direction they needed to go. “I’d think you’d be a little nicer to the man who came out here last minute to help you on this project.”
“I’d be nicer if you weren’t so annoying.”
Fowler let out a sound Bennett had learned a long time ago was a reluctant laugh.
Bennett had first worked with Fowler over a decade ago, and although he was often grouchy and always opinionated, there was no one Bennett trusted more to get the footage he needed.
He was lucky to count Fowler as a friend as well as a colleague.
That he’d agreed to come out here to replace the previous director of photography, who’d had to quit unexpectedly to attend to a family matter, meant Bennett owed him big time.
“Hey, guys.”
As one, they glanced up at the voice, to where a man was jogging toward them.
Eli Parker, Bennett’s mind supplied. Right-winger.
Twenty-five. Six foot one. A hundred and eighty-eight pounds.
Born and raised in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.
He’d put up sixty-three points for the Trailblazers’ affiliate AHL team last season and had done well enough for himself during training camp this summer to earn himself a place on the Trailblazers’ roster.
“Hey,” Eli repeated with a smile, hand outstretched for a shake.
Blond, blue-eyed, and freckle-faced, he looked as cornfed as they came—or whatever the equivalent was in Saskatchewan.
The freckles continued down his arms and over the backs of his hands like a galaxy of stars.
“You must be Bennett Jackson. I’m Eli. I’m supposed to take you to the meeting. ”
“Good to meet you, Eli.” Bennett gestured at Fowler. “This is Fowler, my new director of photography.”
“Nice. We were wondering who was going to replace Trish. We’re just this way, by the way.
” Eli nodded toward the hallway on the right.
He bounced ahead of them, all elbows. “Have you had breakfast? There are breakfast sandwiches and smoothie bowls in the meeting room. Muffins too, but they’re kinda dry.
Don’t tell Sandbaker I said that, though.
I think he has a crush on the baker at the bakery down the street—he keeps buying muffins from there by the dozen even though they’re not that good.
Hey, question.” He turned and walked backward, facing them as they rounded a corner.
“You’re starting player interviews soon, right? ”
“That’s right,” Bennett replied. “You’re one of the first, if I recall.”
“So . . . what should I wear? Is this a suit-and-tie kind of deal? Jeans and my jersey? Should we all be wearing, like, black or something so we all look uniform?”
“The idea is for you to be comfortable. If a suit and tie will make you feel too stiff, then definitely not that. Check with your PR people to make sure they don’t want a certain look, but I’d say whatever makes you feel most like you.”
“Jeans and a hoodie? Is that too informal?”