Chapter 3 Andrei #2
The scrimmage continued, but something had shifted. I was more aware of the cameras now, of the way my movements might be interpreted and edited later. Every check, every pass, every interaction with my teammates became a potential storyline.
When Coach Neilsen finally blew the whistle, I felt the familiar mix of exhaustion and satisfaction that came after good ice time. But underneath it was something new, a self-consciousness that hadn’t existed before.
In the hallway outside the locker room, Jen Harding intercepted Griffin and me before we could escape to the showers.
“That was fantastic,” she said, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. “The chemistry between you two is exactly what we were hoping to capture. Mind if we do a quick follow-up interview?”
Griffin shrugged easily. “Sure.”
I wanted to refuse, to disappear into the anonymity of the locker room, but Griffin was already following Jen toward a quieter corner where a cameraman waited with handheld equipment.
“Just a few questions about the practice,” Jen assured us as we settled against the wall. “Nothing too heavy.”
The camera’s red light blinked on, and suddenly, every word felt weighted with significance.
“How did that feel out there?” Jen asked, her question directed at both of us but her gaze settling on Griffin.
“Where do we get our ideas from?” Griffin joked, making me laugh.
I poked his rib cage with my elbow. He cleared his throat.
“Great,” Griffin said, his natural charisma shining through, even under the artificial lights.
“That’s what hockey’s supposed to feel like.
Fast, competitive, fun. When you’re playing with people you trust, it doesn’t matter who’s watching. ”
Jen nodded and turned to me. “Andrei, you seemed to take that confrontation with Mason pretty seriously. Is that protective instinct something we’ll see more of this season?”
The question caught me off guard. I hadn’t realized my response to Mason’s trash talk had been that obvious, that readable to outside observers.
“I don’t like guys taking cheap shots at my teammates,” I said, keeping my voice level.
“Even in practice?”
“Especially in practice. That’s where bad habits start.”
Jen made a note on her clipboard. “There’s an intensity to you that’s really compelling. The strong, silent type with a dangerous edge. Is that something you cultivate, or does it come naturally?”
Dangerous edge. The phrase sat wrong in my mouth. I’d never thought of myself as particularly dangerous, just private. But if that’s what the cameras saw, if that’s what the audience would see, maybe I should lean into it.
“I’m not here to make friends,” I said, immediately regretting how cliché it sounded.
But Jen’s eyes lit up. “Perfect. That’s exactly the kind of authentic attitude we’re looking for.”
Authentic. Right.
Griffin jumped in, maybe sensing my discomfort. “We’ve been best friends since before peewee days. I think I know how to handle him when he gets moody.”
The mention of our history, the easy acknowledgment of our bond, settled something in my chest. I glanced at him, and the corners of my lips ticked upward.
Whatever else was happening here, whatever roles we were being asked to play, our friendship was real.
It was the constant beneath all the performance and manipulation.
“How long exactly?” Jen asked.
“Almost ten years,” Griffin said without hesitation. “Our dads put us on the same team when we were twelve, and we’ve been stuck with each other ever since.”
Stuck with each other. He said it with such warmth, such obvious affection, that I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders.
“And that partnership translates to the ice?”
“Always has,” Griffin said, glancing at me with those hazel eyes that seemed to catch every source of light in the hallway. “Andrei sees things other people miss. He’s got this way of reading the play that makes my job easier. When he’s covering my back, I can take risks I wouldn’t normally take.”
The praise sent heat through my chest, unexpected and fierce. Griffin saw me, understood what I brought to our partnership in ways that went beyond statistics or highlight reels.
“What about you, Andrei? What’s it like playing with someone you’ve known for so long?”
I looked at Griffin, at the easy confidence in his posture and the genuine smile playing around his mouth. The camera captured everything, but for once, I didn’t care.
“It’s like having a conversation without words,” I said. “We don’t have to think about it anymore. We just know.”
Jen nodded, satisfied with whatever dynamic she’d captured. “Great. I think we have everything we need for now.”
The camera light went dark, and the artificial intensity of the moment evaporated. Griffin stretched, his jersey riding up slightly to reveal a strip of skin above his gear.
“That wasn’t so bad,” he said.
Easy for him to say. He was a natural in front of cameras, comfortable with attention in ways I’d never be. But maybe that was okay. Maybe my discomfort, properly edited and contextualized, would read as the mysterious brooding the producers seemed to want.
As we walked back toward the locker room, I caught Griffin’s reflection in the glass doors ahead of us. His hair was disheveled from his helmet, his cheeks still flushed from exertion. He looked exactly like what he was: a college athlete in his element, happy and unguarded and completely himself.
The cameras could capture that, could broadcast it to thousands of strangers who would fall in love with his easy charm and golden retriever enthusiasm.
But they couldn’t capture the way he’d looked at me when he talked about our partnership, the warmth in his voice when he’d called us best friends.
And those were the things I had fallen in love with.
People could love him from afar, but nobody would love him quite the right way. Nobody but me.
That belonged to us. That remained constant, no matter how many microphones they taped to our chests or storylines they tried to manufacture around us.
I held on to that thought as we pushed through the doors into the chaos of post-practice routine, into a locker room now wired for sound and a future that felt less certain with every passing day.
At least I had Griffin. At least I had that.