18. Jamie
Jamie
The puck hits the ice, and twenty men explode into motion.
The roar crashing down from the stands is instantaneous, rolling through Climate Pledge Arena with enough force to rattle the glass in front of me and vibrate faintly through the soles of my skates.
For one disorienting second, I forget we’re filming a movie.
My heart kicks exactly the way it does before opening faceoff on a packed Saturday night, adrenaline floods my system, nerves sharpen at the edges the way they always do when something real is at stake, as Seattle Central’s Red Hawks and Cascade State’s Wolverines collide at center ice.
“Let’s go, Red Hawks!”
The chant erupts from somewhere behind me, quickly spreading through the lower bowl until hundreds of voices are shouting in rhythm, building on each other, feeding off the noise until the whole arena feels like it’s breathing in unison.
“Let’s go, Red Hawks!”
“Let’s go, Red Hawks!”
Foam fingers bounce above a sea of red, black, and white.
Homemade signs sway through the crowd, some of them glittered and hand-painted with enough enthusiasm to suggest whoever made them genuinely cares which team wins.
A student section that didn’t exist three weeks ago suddenly feels like it’s been cheering together for years, like they have actual stakes in this game, actual history riding on the outcome.
I catch myself smiling.
I’ve played in front of sold-out crowds my entire career.
I’ve heard playoff buildings shake after overtime goals, felt the ice beneath me tremble when eighteen-thousand people surged to their feet at once.
I’ve watched momentum swing because a crowd decided to will a puck across the goal line through nothing more than noise and collective belief.
This isn’t that.
Every chant has been rehearsed. Every reaction has been discussed in production meetings. Half the crowd are extras who spent their morning in a holding area being coached on when to rise and when to groan. Honestly, some of them are giving the rehearsed extras a run for their money.
None of it’s real. Somehow, every bit of it feels real.
Our center wins the draw cleanly, pulling the puck straight back to the defenseman, who immediately swings it D-to-D, drawing Cascade’s forecheck toward the boards.
Their winger bites exactly where he’s supposed to, committing too early and opening the middle lane.
The breakout unfolds one pass at a time, five skaters moving together as though they’ve spent years building chemistry instead of six weeks learning where to stand and which edge to use when they stop.
I know every movement before it happens because I helped build it, and I still haven’t gotten used to that.
Hockey has always been instinct for me. You read the play.
You react. You adjust in real time to whatever the ice is telling you, trusting your body to make decisions before your brain fully catches up.
Every shift is different because every player on the ice is trying to solve the same problem before you do, and the whole game is just five skaters trying to stay one thought ahead of the other five.
This is different. This is choreography.
Every breakout has a predetermined purpose.
Every line change happens on cue. Every dump-in, every controlled zone entry, every hit along the boards, every shot from the point has already been mapped out long before the puck ever touched the ice this morning.
Even the mistakes are intentional, from the missed clearing attempt in the second period to the too-many-men call that sends Mercer to the glass in frustration. All of it scripted. All of it precise.
I know where every player is supposed to be before they get there. I know where the puck is supposed to go before it leaves the blade.
That’s still the part that amazes me.
The funny thing is, the game isn’t the only thing moving with that kind of precision.
My attention drifts away from the puck for the first time all shift, taking in everything happening beyond the glass.
Camera operators glide alongside the boards on tracks that must have been laid before dawn, matching the rush up the ice without ever getting in the actors’ way.
Another camera hangs high above center ice, floating silently on a crane as it follows the play from overhead, its movements so smooth it barely registers until you look directly at it.
Production assistants weave between cables and equipment cases, headsets pressed to their ears while they quietly relay instructions from one end of the building to the other.
Kirk’s voice reaches me from behind the bank of monitors, calm and measured as he directs the camera operators through his headset.
“Camera one, stay with Mercer. Camera three, hold the bench. Stand by.”
Nobody rushes. Nobody talks over anyone else.
The instructions come out calm, clipped, almost routine, stripped of urgency, and every camera operator shifts exactly where they need to be without missing a beat.
Watching it unfold reminds me of listening to line changes from the bench.
Everyone already knows their assignment.
They’re just waiting for the next cue, ready before the call ever comes.
It’s strange, seeing hockey through someone else’s eyes.
I’ve spent my whole life reading passing lanes, anticipating pressure, looking for the next opening before it fully reveals itself. That’s the lens I can’t take off. Every time I watch the play develop out there, some part of me is already reading it as a game.
Kirk’s watching something completely different.
His attention barely leaves the monitors as his eyes move from one camera angle to another, following Cyaire as he becomes Daniel Mercer with a thoroughness that doesn’t leave room for anything else.
He isn’t watching to see if the play develops the way I drew it up on the whiteboard.
He’s watching to make sure Mercer hits his mark before laying into the officials, that the frustration after a missed scoring chance lands in the body before it reaches the face, that every camera is telling the same story from a different angle without any of them contradicting each other.
A sharp whistle cuts through the arena.
“Cut!”
The change is so immediate it almost makes me laugh.
One second the building is shaking beneath thousands of screaming voices, players battling along the boards like they’re one shift away from the Frozen Four, the game hanging in the balance with two minutes left.
The next, everything stops.
The crowd falls silent without being asked twice.
Actors coast back to their starting positions, already shaking out their legs and rolling their necks.
Crew members step onto the ice carrying water bottles, towels, and makeup kits while wardrobe smooths jerseys and production assistants nudge cameras a few inches into new positions, checking angles on small monitors before flagging their adjustments back to Kirk.
It’s genuinely unbelievable how quickly controlled chaos becomes simply controlled.
I don’t know what’s more impressive, the hockey or the machine built around it.
“Reset, everybody,” Kirk calls from behind the monitors, already studying playback on the closest screen.
The actors skate back to their marks. Extras take their seats. Someone begins counting down through a headset before another voice calmly calls, “Background.”
The conversations slowly return. The buzz spreads through the crowd again, building the way it always does when a building comes back to life after an intermission, voices layering over each other until the arena sounds full again.
Foam fingers lift into the air. The student section starts another chant, building the noise one voice at a time until the whole place feels alive, genuinely alive, in a way that no amount of post-production is going to manufacture after the fact.
Kirk raises a hand.
“Action.”
The roar crashes back with enough force to rattle the glass.
If I hadn’t watched it happen myself, I’d swear none of it had ever stopped.
The Red Hawks attack again, cycling the puck low beneath the goal line before working it back to the point with quick, deliberate passes.
The Wolverines collapse toward the crease, trying to clog every shooting lane, bodies stacking up between the puck and the net.
But the puck keeps moving, tape to tape, forcing them to chase instead of react, always a step behind the Red Hawks’ timing.
“Pressure!”
“Stay on him!”
The student section pounds against the glass as the defenseman walks the blue line, patient, reading the traffic in front.
He finds a lane, but the resulting one-timer meets the goalie’s pad in a sharp kick save, and the crowd goes nuts.
“So close!” somebody behind me shouts, throwing both hands into the air with the particular anguish of someone who genuinely believed it was going in.
Without thinking, I find myself cheering with them, pumping both fists overhead as I shout, “Let’s go!” Nobody pays me any attention. I’m just another guy caught up in the game, same as everyone else in the building. Which is maybe the highest compliment I could give everyone involved.
Mercer slams the bench door after an icing call, wheeling toward the nearest official with his clipboard raised and enough conviction behind his eyes to make me laugh out loud.
“Are you kidding me?” he shouts.
Hell, he could give Coach Lennox a genuine run for his money. That’s not a small thing to say.
A sharp whistle slices through the noise.
“Cut!”