7. Graham
Graham
The fake snow stuck to Graham’s bootlaces in greasy white clumps.
“Graham, keep the stick above Nicolle’s shoulder,” Colin called through the megaphone. “You’re burying the logo.”
Graham adjusted the prop stick and glanced down at the seam running under Nicolle’s left blade. “Move over before you catch that edge.”
Nicolle looked down, shifted her weight, then flicked a curl away from her cheek. “Then stop drifting onto my mark every time they fire the snow.”
“They’re firing it into my face.”
“That’s why they’re paying you.”
The camera assistant lifted a hand from behind the rig. Colin counted them in again.
Graham planted one skate on the strip of tape marking his position and forced the smile back onto his face.
This is easier than getting stapled into the boards.
That was the calculation. Six hours under lights.
Forty-something takes. A campaign built around fake chemistry and cleaner gear than anything he had worn during his rookie year.
In exchange, the endorsement payout dwarfed what he had once earned grinding through minor-league buses and split shifts.
Back then, Riley had taped his sticks until her fingers blistered while he hauled lumber to keep rent paid. If standing beside Nicolle in a ridiculous snowstorm bought Riley a life where she never had to count grocery money again, he could stand there until midnight.
“Closer,” Colin barked. “You two are supposed to look like you enjoy being in the same zip code.”
Graham shifted toward Nicolle.
“Not on my dress,” she said.
“Pick one. Close or dry.”
“Colin wants both.”
The lights flared again. Artificial snow sprayed across the set. Graham angled the stick, leaned toward Nicolle, and gave the lens the grin every creative brief seemed to demand from him.
“Cut!”
Colin’s shout cracked across the soundstage.
He lowered the megaphone and strode toward them. “You’re giving me absolute plywood out there, Graham! I need you leaning into Nicolle. You have to sell that legendary chemistry the fanbase expects!”
Graham lowered the stick to his side and rolled one shoulder beneath the pads. Sweat had soaked the collar of his base layer. “I’m giving you all the lean I have, Colin. Let’s just reset from the top so we can wrap this up and get me out of these pads.”
Nicolle tugged at the hem of her sparkling dress and stepped off the snow-covered mark. “Don’t stress, Colin, we’ll nail the shot on this one. Graham is dragging from baking under these grids all afternoon, but we’re ready.”
“If they want another full run,” Graham said, “turn one of those banks off.”
“They kill that bank, they kill the sparkle on the costume,” Nicolle said. “Give them the shot and we’re done.”
Colin slapped the megaphone against his palm. “Resetting for take forty-two! Background extras, shake it out and find your marks. I do not want to see the energy dying on my set!”
Crew members swept in to clear a ridge of foam from the panels. Graham returned to the tape, adjusted his grip, and looked toward the camera.
The payout made this miserable afternoon worth it. Riley would understand that.
Graham raised the prop stick for take forty-two.
The director called another hold before they made it through the opening movement.
Two makeup artists crossed the panels and boxed Graham in before he could step off his mark. One pressed blotting paper against his forehead while the other checked the damp collar showing above his pads. Heat trapped inside the gear made every layer stick to him.
“Hold still,” the first artist said. “You’ve sweated straight through the powder.”
“Then stop putting more on.”
“We need continuity.”
“You’re going to lose it again the second Colin turns those lights back up.”
The artist gave him a look and kept working. Beside him, Nicolle lifted one skate and tapped the blade against the panels before setting it down again.
“My toes are dead.”
“Join the club.”
“Your boots weren’t designed by sadists.”
A production assistant stepped between the cameras and pointed toward Graham’s gear bag. “Two minutes before reset. Don’t disappear.”
“I’m standing right here.”
The makeup artist finally moved away. Graham lowered the stick against the side of the bag, opened the zipper, and pulled out his phone.
Nothing.
No missed call from Riley. No message. No sarcastic one-line reply telling him to go to hell. Her name sat exactly where he had left it, beneath months of silence that should have become alarming long ago.
Instead, he felt irritated.
He had given her room. More room than anyone could accuse him of denying her. He had lost the first weeks to the playoff media tour, the next stretch to sponsor appearances, and whatever time he had left to the preseason campaign.
Today ended it.
Tomorrow, I go get my wife.
He had already made up his mind. He knew roughly where she had gone. He still had her ring. All he needed was one uninterrupted conversation without cameras, executives, or someone waving a schedule in his face.
Riley could be furious. She had earned furious.
Months of silence was enough.
He would drive down, put the ring back where it belonged, and end this ridiculous standoff in person.
Graham locked the screen and slipped the phone into his pocket.
Across the set, Nicolle snapped her fingers at the same production assistant. “I ordered lemon water twenty minutes ago, and nobody on this crew is moving. I am not standing around on this plastic ice until my feet go numb inside these skates.”
The assistant lifted both hands. “They’re bringing it from craft services.”
“They said that ten minutes ago.”
Graham adjusted one shoulder pad. “If we nail the script, we can both leave tomorrow. Grit your teeth through the next two takes.”
Nicolle stared at him. “Your boots have ankle support, Graham, so spare me the advice. I want five minutes off my feet before the next setup, or I’m going to look deranged on camera.”
Colin’s amplified voice cut across the set before the assistant could answer.
“We are rolling now, so hit your marks! I am not authorizing a break when this studio rental expires in exactly one hour and the meter is running!”
Nicolle muttered something under her breath and turned toward her tape mark.
Graham zipped the gear bag shut, picked up the stick, and stepped back onto the panels. Tomorrow belonged to Riley.
He reset his grip while a camera operator leaned around the rig and checked the monitor.
“Hold that angle,” Colin called through the megaphone. “We’re going straight through this time.”
“Then roll it.”
Beside him, Nicolle shifted one skate back onto her mark. “If we have to do another reset after this, I’m taking these things off whether wardrobe likes it or not.”
Graham kept his eyes on the lens. “Get through this one first.”
The countdown started.
Three.
Two—
The doors at the rear of the soundstage swung open.
Daylight cut across the artificial snow, and everyone near the back wall turned toward the interruption. A man in a cheap gray suit walked through the opening as if he belonged there, carrying a thick manila envelope.
Colin lowered the megaphone. “What the hell is this?”
The man kept coming.
One of the stage guards stepped away from the wall, but a production assistant hurried across the panels and reached the stranger first, planting himself in the path.
“Sir, you can’t be back here. The set is closed.”
“I’m here for Mr. Delaney.”
“You need to go through production management.”
The stranger stepped around him.
He skidded once through a patch of foam before finding his footing again. He never stopped moving, never glanced toward the cameras, and never reacted to the crew members calling after him.
Graham lowered the stick.
At first, the situation looked like some idiot fan had slipped through the wrong gate. It happened often enough around arenas, although fans rarely made it this far into a private commercial set.
Then the envelope came into clearer view.
Thick paper. No merchandise. No phone held up for a photograph. No jersey begging for a signature.
Legal.
That made more sense.
The apparel people had been changing language in the campaign agreements all summer. Some lawyer had probably decided another amendment required his signature before production wrapped for the day.
Of course they would send somebody onto the set instead of waiting an hour.
Colin stormed forward several paces. “Security, drag this man out of my frame right now! He is standing directly in the shot!”
The process server paid him no attention.
Nicolle stepped closer to Graham. “Do you know him?”
“No.”
The stranger stopped in front of them and looked straight at Graham.
“Confirming identity. Are you Graham Delaney?”
There went any chance this was about Nicolle’s contract.
Graham shifted in front of her, keeping the stick lowered at his side. The envelope remained in the man’s hand, close enough now for Graham to make out the reinforced clasp on the back.
“You’re looking at him. But you need to explain exactly who gave you clearance to bypass front gate security.”
Behind the stranger, the production assistant caught up again.
“Sir, you need to come with me. Now.”
The man never turned around.
Instead, he brought the envelope up and pressed it against Graham’s chest.
Graham stared down at it.
No company logo marked the front. No sponsor branding. Just his full legal name printed across a white service label.
That irritated him more than it worried him.
Somebody had burned through studio security, killed another take, and marched into camera range because apparently an email had become too civilized.
Graham took the envelope with his free hand.
“What exactly is this?”
The stranger released it.
His job, whatever it was, seemed finished the instant the paper changed hands.
“Have a good afternoon, Mr. Delaney. Consider yourself officially served.”
The process server turned toward the stage doors without another word.
“Wait.” Graham kept the stick at his side and watched him go. “Who sent you?”
The man kept walking.