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)
“Go away,” I gripe, thankful she didn’t wipe a smudge off my face with a spit-licked thumb.
She returns to the small couch, crossing her legs and settling in like she’s found front-row seats to the best entertainment she’s had all week. Evan clips a mic on me and adjusts it before moving to the camera.
“Before we start,” Juno says, calm and unhurried, “I should tell you how I do this.”
I wait, hands loose on my thighs, shoulders relaxed even though I’m aware of the camera now in a way I wasn’t a second ago.
“I don’t work chronologically,” she continues. “We’ll bounce around. Hockey. Life. Whatever comes up. It tends to keep things loose, so it doesn’t feel like a checklist.”
While that sounds a little erratic, I’m sure she knows what she’s doing. I think she’s proven that in this industry. Even sitting here right now, about to be put under a microscope, it feels less like an interrogation and more like a conversation that happens to be recorded.
“It won’t be a back-and-forth dialogue so much as me providing you with a topic in a way that will induce you to talk naturally. So, if you see moments of silence from me, it’s usually me wanting more from you, and I’m waiting for it. We’ll make it look good in the editing process.”
“Okay,” I respond, not sure how to make words appear that might not be there, but I’ll try.
“If I have to prod you with a question, it would honestly help me if you can sort of restate the question in your answer. Make it clear what I was asking. Make sense?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“And lastly, if you need a break,” she adds, “we stop. If you want to stop entirely, we stop. No explanations required.” Her gaze holds mine, steady but not demanding. “And if I ask a question you don’t want to answer, say so. I’ll move on.”
“Really?” I ask, not able to hide the tiny bit of skepticism in my tone.
“Really,” she assures me. “Refusing a question never makes it into the documentary. Not as silence, not as implication. It doesn’t exist.”
My chest eases at that. Not relief exactly, but more like trust being carefully set in place.
I glance at Birdie, who gives me an exaggerated thumbs-up.
“Do you give that guarantee to everyone?” I ask.
Juno’s mouth curves slightly. “I do.”
Weirdly, I don’t like that answer, but I can’t say why. Instead, I nod.
“Ready?” she asks.
I take a breath, the pool lights reflecting faintly off the glass in the patio doors behind her.
“Yeah,” I say.
The camera clicks on and the awareness hits instantly. There’s a low-grade tightening between my shoulders, like a harness pulling snug.
Juno begins easy. “How did you get into hockey?”
The question is simple and harmless. The kind I’ve answered a hundred times in sound bites and media scrums.
I almost laugh.
Instead, I lean back into the chair and stare at a spot on the far wall for a second, collecting my thoughts.
When I’m ready, I turn to her, but a thought strikes me. “Do I look at you or the camera?”
“Good question,” she says with a smile. “Look at me. The camera is slightly off-angle, but is getting most of the front view.”
I nod, take another breath. “Okay… how I got into hockey. That was my dad. He grew up on it and taught me.” Juno nods once, waiting. “Early mornings,” I continue. “Frozen ponds. He’d lace my skates with fingers so numb he could barely feel the laces, and I’d complain the whole time like I had any idea what cold actually was.”
A corner of her mouth lifts, but she doesn’t interrupt. In fact, I get that slightly expectant look, meaning she wants more.
“It was a lot of hard work. Practices both before and after school. Weekends always traveling and playing.” I shrug. “Birthdays missed. Sleepovers skipped. Hockey kind of took over everything.”
“Did you ever resent it?” she asks.
I think about that for a beat and remember her request to restate the question in my answer. “I never resented all that hard work. It never felt forced. I loved hockey as much as my dad did.”
Juno watches me intently—listening, but not steering me anywhere.
“It felt less like a choice and more like gravity,” I say. “Like this thing I kept getting pulled back to no matter what else was going on, and all I know was at the end of the day, no matter how exhausted I was, I was where I was supposed to be.”
She nods, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “And you were good,” she says, not a question.
“I got better,” I correct. “Because I didn’t want to be anywhere else, a lot of time it didn’t feel like work.”
Silence settles between us, but it isn’t awkward. I wonder if an ordinary conversation with her, off camera, unrelated to the documentary, would be like that. I suspect it would.