Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Conversations taper and we all drift out of the aisles toward the large open area that divides the dressing area from the lounge. We form a loose semicircle as Coach posts up in the center of it. I take a spot near the front without thinking.
Monahan stands tall, an iPad in hand. He looks energized and focused, and I’m looking forward to his leadership. His reputation is that he can be trusted when things go sideways. He’s not the warmest and fuzziest of guys but can be analytical without being cold, demanding without being cruel.
“Welcome to training camp,” he says. “This is where the fun stops and the work starts.” A few low chuckles ripple through the group. “You all know how this goes. Baseline testing this morning. Medical check-ins. Systems meeting. Then we hit the ice.” His gaze sweeps the room, measuring what he sees. “There are no guarantees here. I don’t care what your contract says. I don’t care what your résumé looks like. Every drill matters. Every rep matters. You earn your ice time every single day.”
I glance around, see some of the guys nodding while others swallow hard.
“And one more thing,” Monahan adds, nodding at someone off to his left. “Remember, the documentary film crew will be around. I don’t think I need to tell you to focus on the game, not on the cameras.”
I jolt because I’d completely forgotten about that and take in the two people standing there. The man is tall with long brown hair and built like a linebacker. He’s actually got his camera on his shoulder, balanced like it’s an extension of his body, and appears to be filming all of this. Beside him stands a woman who I imagine might be some sort of assistant.
She’s petite and incredibly beautiful. She has sort of an artistic, hippie vibe going with a pair of cargo pants, a loose-flowing, cream-colored blouse and flip-flops.
She looks young—late twenties, maybe. Her hair is so dark, I’d consider it black, pulled into a sleek ponytail hanging down her back. Facial piercings catch the light when she moves, but it’s her eyes that make a man look twice.
Crystal blue, full of light.
She stands confident, like she doesn’t care who’s watching and clearly isn’t intimidated by the room full of men staring at her right now.
Some guys shift. Some straighten. A few grin like they’re already imagining highlight reels and endorsement deals.
“I’ll remind you this is part of a league initiative,” Monahan says, drawing my attention back to him. “Fully supported by Patrick Rowe. You’re expected to be professional. If you have concerns, bring them to me.”
Then he motions toward the cameraman and assistant. “Juno,” he says. “I’m going to turn this over to you now.”
Interesting name… Juno.
And then to my surprise, it’s the woman who steps forward. She strides confidently to the center of the room without hesitation, like she belongs here.
“Thank you, Coach, for giving me a few minutes.” Her voice is calm. Steady. And I’m starting to think she’s more than an assistant. “I’m Juno Paxton. I’m directing the documentary that will follow your team through its expansion season. This is my cameraman, Evan Langdon. It will usually only be the two of us around.” She pauses. “We’re here to capture reality. That means practices, meetings, travel. Conversations, good days and bad days. We shoot verité—meaning we don’t stage moments and we don’t interrupt them. If you forget we’re here, we’re doing our job right.”
Arch leans toward me, talking low out of the side of his mouth. “Is it me or is she smokin’ hot?
I don’t answer him. Don’t roll my eyes. Don’t react at all.
But I also don’t disagree.
The woman doesn’t appear to be nervous and not going to lie, a woman’s hot factor to me stems from her confidence.
Her gaze sweeps the room, cataloguing faces, reactions, energy. She’s not looking at us like a fan or even like a journalist hungry for sound bites. She’s looking the way I do when I’m reading a play—angles, tells, who’s bracing and who’s pretending not to.
When her eyes land on me, they linger without apology. She appraises me like she believes I matter and is filing that away for later.
I don’t look away, but I couldn’t if I wanted to. She’s fucking stunning and weirdly, I don’t mind her eyes on me. While I don’t want anything to do with that camera, it’s not a chore to stare back at her.
I don’t give her anything—no nod, no expression—but something tightens low in my belly all the same.
Physical awareness that’s sharp and a little uncomfortable.
Arch shifts beside me, clearly clocking it. “Huh,” he murmurs. “So that’s a yes.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, eyes still locked forward.
“Because we work with a lean crew,” she continues, nodding toward her cameraman, “we use lav mics for interviews and mounted audio as a backup. Unless we’re doing one-on-one interviews, we will try to take up as little footprint as possible so we’re not a distraction.” That earns a few nods of appreciation. “I’ll be scheduling the one-on-ones over the next few weeks. Some of you I’ll talk to more than others. That’s not personal but rather the way a story unfolds.”