19. Cyaire
Cyaire
Ismooth both hands down the front of Daniel Mercer’s final costume, a three-piece black and white pinstripe suit, as I make my way through the empty arena corridor, letting the quiet follow me toward the final mark of the day.
After weeks of whistles, skate blades, shouted instructions, and crowds roaring through Climate Pledge Arena, the silence feels almost unnatural.
Even the soft strike of my dress shoes against the concrete seems too loud as the cameras track my progress from somewhere behind me.
The Seattle Central University crest waits at the end of the hallway, painted across the wall in red, black, and white.
The Redhawk stretches its wings over the bold SCU lettering as though it is already taking flight, every feather sharpened by the same meticulous detail the production team has brought to the rest of the film.
I slow when I reach it.
Daniel Mercer has spent the entire movie fighting to rebuild this hockey program, convincing everyone around him that his players deserve more than the failures people have already assigned to them.
The meeting he has just left with the university chancellor confirms what he has spent the season earning.
Seattle Central wants him to stay. The job is his, the program is finally his to lead, and the team he refused to abandon is heading into a future none of them could see when he first stepped behind the bench.
I place my palm against the painted red hawk, holding it there for one measured beat before lowering my hand.
Then I nod in satisfaction.
The gesture is small, meant only for Mercer and the history he has made inside these walls. I turn away from the crest and continue toward the exit as the camera follows, keeping my pace even while the daylight beyond the glass doors grows brighter with every step.
I push through them and walk into the afternoon sunshine.
Warmth spreads across my face as the doors swing shut behind me, sealing Daniel Mercer’s former life inside the arena.
I move onto the mark taped discreetly against the pavement, square my shoulders, and look directly into the waiting camera.
The smile comes slowly, carrying quiet pride rather than celebration, the expression of a man who knows the hardest part of his journey is behind him and everything ahead belongs to him now.
I hold it for one second, then two. . .
“Cut!” Kirk’s voice breaks through the stillness, and I release the breath I have been holding.
He studies the monitor for another moment before looking up, his face opening into a wide smile. “That’s a wrap on Cyaire Reed!”
The entire area erupts.
Applause rises from every direction as crew members step out from behind cameras, lighting rigs, and production tents.
Someone whistles loudly enough to cut through the clapping.
A few people call my name while others cheer for Daniel Mercer, who was on set this morning.
I laugh as the weight of the last three months finally begins to lift from my shoulders.
Kirk leaves the monitors and crosses toward me, clapping hard enough to make sure I hear him above everyone else.
“Ladies and gentlemen, today marks Cyaire’s final day with us and the completion of his work on Blue Line,” he announces, raising his voice for the gathered cast and crew.
“He gave Daniel Mercer everything we could have asked for and then found a way to give us more. This film would not be what it is without him.”
The applause swells again, and I press one hand against my chest, genuinely overwhelmed by the faces surrounding me.
These people have seen me tired, frustrated, soaked in artificial rain, buried beneath layers of winter wardrobe during a Seattle heat wave, and standing on the other side of a hockey bench pretending I understood a game that once felt completely foreign to me.
Somewhere along the way, they became more than the people I worked beside.
They became the people who helped me bring Daniel Mercer to life.
“Thank you,” I say, turning slowly so I can include as many of them as possible. “All of you. I couldn’t have done this without every person standing here.”
My gaze moves through the crowd until it finds Cameron near the production tent, clapping with a rare, open smile on his face. Jamie stands several feet away beside a handful of Vipers representatives, his eyes fixed on me as he applauds, pride written all over his face.
This is the beginning of our final two days together. Two days without call sheets, early mornings, wardrobe fittings, or anyone needing either of us somewhere else. Two days at home before I fly to Los Angeles and Jamie reports for training camp the following week.
I hold his gaze, already imagining getting out of this suit, returning to his house, and closing the rest of the world outside.
Then movement near the edge of the crowd catches my attention.
Jasper stands beside the arena doors with his phone in one hand and a leather portfolio tucked beneath his arm. He is dressed for travel, his expression focused despite the applause surrounding him, and every bit of warmth inside me cools at once.
He wasn’t supposed to be here today. Ignoring his presence I turn to leave. I’m sure he’ll find me if he needs me.
Before I can make it halfway across the lot, someone for wardrobe catches up to me.
“Don’t disappear on us just yet,” she says with a teasing wink.
I turn as she hurries toward me, sidestepping a pair of crew members pushing an equipment case toward the loading area.
“We just need your final outfit back so we can get it cleaned and packed away. Don’t want you to leave with it on. You’d be surprised at how many actors walk away with their costumes.”
“Of course,” I reply, holding my hand to my chest. “I would never,” I tease back.
Her expression softens into a warm smile, “Congratulations, Cyaire. The ladies and I will miss our morning chats. You were wonderful to work with.”
“Thank you. That means a lot. I will miss you all as well.”
She squeezes my arm before heading back toward the wardrobe trailer, already calling to another assistant standing beside a rolling rack crowded with costumes.
I continue walking, taking in the strange shift happening around me.
The celebration hasn’t ended, but each department has already begun closing out its portion of today’s shoot.
Grips dismantle the lighting setup used for the exterior scene while camera operators secure lenses and equipment they won’t need for the remaining pickups.
Production assistants move between trailers carrying revised schedules, reminding me that filming will continue after I leave.
A few actors still have scenes to finish, and Kirk may need inserts or additional footage before he can declare the entire production complete.
They aren’t dismantling the world we created in a single afternoon. They’re simply packing away the parts of it that no longer need me.
“Cyaire.” I stall, recognizing Jasper’s voice with a sense of dread.
He falls into step beside me as I make my way toward wardrobe, finishing something on his phone before sliding it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
The leather portfolio tucked beneath his other arm and the focused expression on his face tell me he didn’t come all this way simply to congratulate me.
“You did it,” he says, glancing back toward the arena. “Three months, and you’re officially done.”
A smile breaks through some of my unease. “I did.”
“That was one hell of a turnaround. I know that wasn’t easy. But you have to put in the work for the accolades, am I right?”
“It didn’t feel fast while I was living it,” I reply, honestly, unbothered about acknowledgements or accolades at this point.
“It never does,” he says almost absently as we step aside to allow two grips to maneuver a camera cart between the trailers. Once they pass, Jasper motions for me to continue walking, keeping pace beside me as though we’re discussing another ordinary entry on my schedule.
“You ready for the next one?”
The question restores some of my excitement.
I’ve known this day was coming, and I’ve accepted that Los Angeles and another project are waiting for me.
I also know I have forty-eight hours before any of that begins, two full days without call sheets, alarms, fittings, or anyone demanding my attention.
Two days at Jamie’s house where we can sleep late, eat when we feel like it, and pretend for a little while longer that our lives aren’t about to pull us in opposite directions.
“I will be,” I say, unable to keep the anticipation from my voice. “I’ve got two days before I fly back to L.A. I’m in desperate need of a little down time.”
Jasper doesn’t answer or mirror my sentiment. His silence catches my attention, and when I glance over, the sympathy in his expression pulls the excitement straight out of me.
“What?” I ask.
“That’s why I’m here,” he says tentatively, adjusting the portfolio beneath his arm before looking ahead again, choosing his next words with more care than usual.
A knot tightens in my stomach, that sense of foreboding coming to fruition.
“The studio moved your meeting,” he rushes out.
I slow to a stop, forcing Jasper to turn back toward me. “What do you mean they moved it?”
“The director’s availability changed this morning. The producers want everyone in Los Angeles tomorrow.”
Frustration rises so quickly that I have to lower my voice before I respond. We’re still surrounded by crew members, and the last thing I need is an audience for this conversation.
“My itinerary says I leave in two days, Jasper. That’s the schedule we agreed on.” I say, making a point by clapping my hands together.
“I know,” he says with a wince.