9. Cyaire #2
A week into filming, I no longer worry about whether I look convincing in skates.
The muscle memory has settled into my body, and Daniel Mercer’s physicality feels natural.
Yes, there are always other things to worry over, it’s the nature of being a performer.
I worry about line delivery, camera placement, and whether Kirk is going to decide he wants another five takes because somebody missed a mark by three inches.
The fundamental fear of looking like an imposter on ice has evaporated though.
Which means Jamie spends most of his time doing what he is actually here to do. Helping the players who need it. The irony is not lost on me. I wanted to keep our interaction professional, maintain some distance for both our sakes.
The better I get at my job, the less reason I have to talk to him.
Of course, that only makes me question whether I want that distance at all.
I’m not afraid to admit that I’m jealous of every actor who gets his attention, every correction he offers, every moment of his focus that isn’t directed toward me.
“Alright, everybody back to one!”
The assistant director’s voice carries across the rink.
Around me, people immediately move again with the choreographed efficiency of a well-oiled machine.
Players return to their starting positions.
Someone from wardrobe appears beside me long enough to tug my jacket into place before disappearing again.
Across the rink, Jamie remains with the players, answering questions and making small adjustments to their positioning.
One of them says something that makes him laugh, the sound warm and genuine.
Another asks a question about stick positioning, and a third immediately jumps in with a second question, stopping Jamie mid-demonstration.
He handles all three without missing a beat, dividing his attention seamlessly between them while never making any of them feel rushed or dismissed.
I should be focusing on the reshoot, getting back into Daniel’s headspace for another take. Instead, my attention keeps drifting across the ice like it has a mind of its own. A week ago, I would’ve been annoyed at my lack of focus, worried about my professionalism.
Today, I know exactly what the problem is.
I miss talking to him. I simply enjoy being around him, hearing his voice, watching the way he moves through the world with such quiet confidence. There, I’ve admitted it to myself. Knowing is half the battle, right?
Then the assistant director calls for places, forcing me back into character before I can examine the revelation any further.
The next few hours disappear into the strange distortion of time that only exists on film sets.
Entire scenes are completed in minutes while the clock seems to race forward.
A ten-second exchange takes forty-five minutes to shoot as cameras move and lighting changes.
People rush everywhere at once while somehow remaining exactly where they need to be in this intricate dance.
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.
“The guy’s standing fifty feet away, Cy. Only you can decide how you want to spend the time you do have.”
I let Cameron’s words sink in as I finish my lunch in contemplative silence, my eyes drifting back to Jamie despite my best efforts at self-control.
One minute I am standing beneath a bank of lights waiting for a camera adjustment that seems to take forever.
The next somebody is handing me revised pages with dialogue changes that need to be memorized immediately.
Then wardrobe needs me for a fitting. Then makeup needs me for touch-ups.
Then Kirk wants another take because he thinks he can get something slightly better out of the scene, pushing us toward perfection one incremental improvement at a time.
By the time the assistant director finally calls the last setup of the day, my feet hurt from hours in skates, my shoulders ache from holding Daniel’s authoritative posture, and I have repeated the same speech to a fictional hockey team so many times that I could probably recite it in my sleep.
“That’s a wrap on scene twenty-three,” the assistant director calls out as a small cheer goes up around the rink from cast and crew alike. I think we are all ready to call it quits this evening after what feels like an exceptionally long day.
Crew members immediately begin moving equipment and breaking down the camera setup near the bench with the efficient haste of people eager to head home.
Actors skate off the ice, ushered by wardrobe toward the costume tents where they’ll trade their hockey gear for street clothes.
I should probably do the same. The last thing I want to do is make anyone wait on me, especially after such a long day. I find I can’t move. Not yet.
Instead, I find myself looking across the ice toward the far boards.
Jamie is talking to Kirk near the bench, their conversation animated and clearly positive.
Kirk is smiling and shaking Jamie’s hand with obvious enthusiasm.
I’m sure he’s probably singing Jamie’s praises, his presence has been indispensable on set, solving problems before they become disasters and making everyone’s job easier.