Faking It With The Hockey Star

Harper’s POV

After spending hours and hours glued to my desk writing the script outline, brainstorming the emotional beats, figuring out how the visual narrative would flow, and meticulously organizing the timeline I finally looked at the glowing clock on my wall.

It was time to start shooting.

I rubbed my tired, strained eyes and stretched long and hard in my chair, my spine popping in protest. I had gone over the script so many times in my head that I could probably recite every single question in my sleep. But I wanted this production to be good.

Not over-produced. Not glossy or forced. Just real.

Authenticity was the single most important element of this entire project.

I glanced down at my phone resting on the wood desk. Justin was coming back tomorrow morning.

That single thought sent a sudden, electric burst of fresh energy surging through my veins. A soft smile pulled at my lips. I wanted to finish every single piece of the filming process tonight so my schedule would be completely clear when he arrived. I wanted to soak up as much time with him as possible. We had been talking on the phone every single day since he left for NHL development camp, and from everything he’d shared, the experience had been nothing short of transformative for him.

He was thriving. Honestly, he was enjoying the brutal intensity far more than I had originally expected.

The coaching staff had been pushing the prospects to their absolute physical limits, but Justin loved the challenge. He craved the pressure. And interestingly enough, the franchise organization had made a deliberate point to keep him and Mason paired up for a majority of the tactical drills and on-ice scrimmages.

Justin had chuckled about it during our late-night call yesterday. "They’re treating us like a package deal, Harp," he’d said, sound tired but deeply proud.

I had teased him about becoming attached at the hip with Mason, but deep down, I completely understood the team’s strategy. They had invested their top two draft picks into the two of them. Their playing styles complemented each other like fire and ice, and the coaching staff clearly wanted to build chemistry between them before the main roster training camp opened.

Justin didn’t mind the spotlight at all. "Whatever gets me onto that starting line," he’d told me. "I’m cool with it."

That was precisely the razor-sharp focus I loved about him.

So tonight, while he was finishing up his final camp meetings, I had my own passion project to complete.

I stood up, gathered my recording gear, and carried the heavy equipment bags downstairs.

Noah immediately stepped up to help me position the key lights and softboxes, while Emma worked on clearing out a spacious corner of our living room. We weren’t attempting to build a Hollywood set. I didn’t want a cold, sterile studio environment. This needed to feel like home because home was where the healing had actually taken place.

We selected a quiet corner near the window where we had enough floor space to position the tripod, camera, and lighting rigs safely. We shifted the coffee table, smoothed down the rug, and hung up the simple, elegant slate-gray backdrop I’d picked up at the craft store. We adjusted the living room furniture until the framing looked clean, warm, and natural.

Noah stood directly behind the camera, peering through the viewfinder. "Is this height good, Harp?"

"Move it a fraction to the left," I instructed, stepping back to analyze the frame.

He nudged the tripod. "How about now?"

"A little bit more."

He shifted it again.

"Perfect. Lock the pan head right there."

Emma walked past the frame carrying a decorative throw pillow, pausing to glare at the backdrop. "Are you sure this fabric isn’t hanging slightly crooked?"

I tilted my head, looking closely at the top hem. "Actually... it is."

Emma rolled her eyes dramatically, sighing. "You’re welcome."

I let out a soft laugh. "Fix it for me, please?"

"Yes, bossy film director."

"Exactly. Now make it level."

She smoothed out the fabric creases while I fine-tuned the ISO, aperture, and white balance settings on the camera lens.

A few minutes later, Mom walked down the stairs.

My breath caught slightly. She looked absolutely stunning. She had kept her makeup wonderfully simple just a soft touch of foundation, a brush of rose blush, and a subtle lip tint enough to make her feel polished and confident without making her look like a stranger.

A warm, overwhelming surge of pride bloomed in my chest. I walked over to her. "Mom, you look so beautiful."

She offered a soft, slightly hesitant smile, touching her cheek. "Thank you, sweetie."

"Are you feeling nervous?"

"A little bit," she admitted, her voice dropping into a quiet whisper. "It’s funny how talking to a lens feels intimidating."

I stepped in close and wrapped my arms around her shoulders, holding her tight. "You don’t have to be nervous at all. It’s just us in this room. Just tell your truth."

She nodded against my shoulder, inhaling deeply. "I know."

We helped her take a seat on the plush armchair. Noah checked the audio levels on the lapel microphone one final time, tapping the foam cover gently. Emma sat on the edge of the sofa nearby with her phone held ready, standing by to assist with adjustments.

I took my position directly behind the main camera rig.

For a long, profound moment, I simply looked at my mother through the digital viewfinder. A lump formed in my throat. This wasn’t just my mother sitting across from me anymore. She was the brave subject of my first major, meaningful documentary. All the sleepless nights, the intense planning, and the lingering anxiety about the future felt instantly worth it.

"Ready, Mom?" I asked softly.

She took a deep, steadying breath, smoothed down her blouse, and nodded. "Ready."

I reached out and clicked the red record button.

The interview began.

I started gently, asking her about her life before everything shattered. I asked about her youth, falling in love, the joy of becoming a young wife, and the overwhelming love of raising her children. I asked about the personal dreams she’d harbored for herself before her entire existence narrowed down to taking care of everyone else.

Then, slowly and respectfully, we moved into the heavier, darker Chapters.

Her diagnosis.

Her voice lowered, becoming tender and fragile as she described the very first physical symptoms she had noticed the persistent fatigue, the strange ache she had brushed off as simple exhaustion. At first, she admitted, she had made excuses. She was a busy mother; of course she was tired.

Then came the escalation. The additional symptoms. The endless, terrifying doctor appointments. The agonizing uncertainty while waiting for test results. The endless days where she barely recognized her own reflection in the mirror.

She spoke candidly about the suffocating fear of trying to remain strong, composed, and smiling for her children, even when her own mind was consumed by dark terror. And she spoke with heartbreaking honesty about the consequences of not catching the illness earlier.

"If I had paid closer attention to what my body was desperately trying to tell me in the beginning," she said quietly, her eyes gazing slightly past the camera lens, "things might have been very different. The journey wouldn’t have been so brutal."

Behind the camera, my hands stayed completely steady on the focus ring, though my heart was aching.

That was the core reason I needed to create this piece. I refused to let her story be reduced to a tragic narrative of suffering. I wanted every single person who watched this to understand the life-saving importance of listening to their own bodies, prioritizing their health, and advocating for themselves when something felt wrong.

If her courage helped just one person recognize a hidden symptom... if her words compelled just one viewer to book an appointment with a doctor before it was too late... then her pain would carry purpose. Her experience could save a life.

Mom moved on to talk about the treatment process. The grueling chemotherapy cycles. The dark, hopeless days where her body felt broken beyond repair. The moments she secretly wanted to throw in the towel and surrender to the exhaustion.

And then... she spoke about recovery.

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