Faking It With The Hockey Star

Harper’s POV

When Professor Silas approved my request to film the team’s media day, I almost hugged him.

"It’s an important part of the documentary," he said, handing my permission form back across the desk. "Just remember, you’re documenting the team. Not interfering with it."

"I won’t," I said.

He smiled. "I know."

I walked out of his office holding that form like it was made of glass.

The hockey arena was louder than usual when I arrived. Not because of a game. Because everyone seemed genuinely happy. The tension from the past week hadn’t completely disappeared, it never fully does, but for the first time in days nobody was talking about rumors or anonymous accounts or anything that had kept me awake staring at my ceiling. Everyone was talking about scouts. About the game. About what came next.

I adjusted the camera hanging around my neck and stepped inside.

Justin spotted me almost immediately. "There she is," he said, walking over already dressed in practice gear, his hair still slightly damp from an earlier warm-up.

"You got permission?" he asked, nodding toward the form in my hand.

I held it up. He grinned. "So now I have to behave."

"You should’ve been behaving already," I said.

"I was," he replied, with the particular confidence of someone who absolutely had not been.

A voice cut in before I could argue. "That’s a lie." Mason appeared carrying three hockey sticks balanced across one shoulder like they weighed nothing. "I’ve known this idiot for three years. He behaves maybe twice a month. On a good month."

Justin rolled his eyes. "Ignore him."

"I’d love to," I said.

Mason nodded solemnly. "So would the entire coaching staff."

I gave up trying not to laugh.

The camera rolled, and for the first time all semester I felt like I was filming exactly what I’d always wanted to capture. Not the games. Not the formal interviews. The moments in between. The ones that told you who these people actually were when nobody was asking them to perform.

Ryan sat on the floor fixing someone else’s skate laces because, apparently, nobody trusted themselves to do it properly before a big week. Evan stood near the equipment room door making the same argument he’d clearly been making for a while. "Pineapple belongs on pizza," he said firmly.

"It absolutely does not," someone replied from inside the room.

"It absolutely—"

Coach walked through the corridor without slowing down. "No pineapple discussions before practice." The hallway went completely silent. Coach disappeared around the corner. Five seconds of perfect quiet followed. Then the argument resumed at exactly the same volume it had stopped at.

I kept the camera rolling.

Justin sat beside his locker taping his stick with the focused expression of someone doing something extremely important. Mason wandered over and watched him in silence for a full thirty seconds. Then, without a word, reached over and untaped the last section Justin had just finished. Then walked away.

Justin stared after him. "Mason."

"What?" Mason called from across the room, not turning around.

"You’ve got five seconds," Justin said, standing up slowly.

"I regret nothing," Mason replied pleasantly.

Justin started walking. Mason immediately sprinted. The entire locker room erupted. I nearly dropped my camera laughing hard enough that the footage would definitely be unusable, which honestly felt worth it.

The bus ride to the secondary practice facility was somehow even louder. Someone connected their phone to the speakers and immediately three different players had opinions about the playlist.

"This is terrible," someone announced.

"It’s classic rock," the playlist owner replied.

"It’s old."

"It’s timeless."

"It’s old," the first voice repeated, with great emphasis.

Another player reached over and grabbed the phone. "We’re listening to country." The entire bus groaned in unison. Coach stood up slowly from the front seat. "If I hear one more argument about the music," he said, looking down the aisle, "I’m picking the playlist." Complete silence fell over the bus. He smiled. "It’ll be opera." The silence lasted approximately two seconds before everyone started laughing at once.

Justin slid into the seat beside me once the noise settled back into its usual comfortable chaos. "You getting good footage?" he asked.

"This is the best day I’ve filmed all semester," I said honestly.

"No drama?" he asked.

"No drama," I confirmed.

"No anonymous accounts?"

"Nope."

"No Ethan?"

I smiled. "Not even a little."

He leaned back against the seat with a long exhale that sounded like someone putting down something heavy. "Good." He closed his eyes for a moment while I filmed out the window, catching the afternoon light moving across the fields outside.

When I turned the camera back toward the aisle, Ryan was asleep two rows ahead of us with his mouth slightly open. Mason had quietly balanced a protein bar on his forehead. Nobody woke him up. Instead, someone added a banana. Then somebody else contributed a water bottle, carefully positioned against his shoulder.

I whispered behind the camera, "How is he not waking up?"

Mason looked directly into my lens. "He hibernates," he said seriously.

Justin snorted. "Mason."

"What?"

"Leave him alone."

"I’m creating modern art," Mason replied, stepping back to admire his work.

Practice that afternoon was something else entirely. The laughter and the music and the ridiculous bus energy disappeared the moment everyone stepped onto the ice. It was like watching a switch flip. Every drill was sharper than I’d seen all semester. Every pass cleaner. Every shot harder and more deliberate. The scouts weren’t there yet, but the team practiced like they were already standing in the stands taking notes.

Standing behind the glass watching them, I understood something I hadn’t been able to fully articulate before. These boys joked constantly. They argued about pizza toppings and stole each other’s tape jobs and built sculptures out of snacks on sleeping teammates. But the moment practice began, they became something else. Something serious and focused and genuinely impressive.

No wonder Coach pushed them so hard. They could take it.

During a short break I reviewed some of the footage on my monitor. Justin laughing at something Mason said. Coach correcting a freshman’s skating posture with the patient repetition of someone who had done it a thousand times before. The bus. The music. The protein bar sculpture. I smiled at the screen. This was the documentary I’d always wanted to make. Not highlight reels. Not trophy presentations. A team that happened to be a family, caught in the moments they weren’t performing for anyone.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced down without thinking.

Unknown Number.

You think one video made you untouchable?

A second message arrived before I could process the first.

You’re getting too proud, Harper.

Then a third.

I made you cry once. I can do it again.

My stomach dropped completely. One final message appeared beneath the others.

Keep acting all high and mighty. I promise I’ll destroy everything you’ve built.

No signature. None was needed.

Dad.

My fingers tightened around the phone. For a moment, the sounds of the arena disappeared entirely. The laughter. The skates cutting across the ice. The coach’s whistle. Everything faded to a single quiet hum and those four messages sitting on my screen.

"Harper?"

Justin’s voice pulled me back. He was skating toward the bench, helmet tucked under one arm, a small smile on his face that disappeared the moment he looked at me properly. "Come here," he said, his voice dropping.

I forced a smile. "Yeah." I slipped my phone into my pocket before he could see the screen and lifted my camera back into position. Not today. Not before his interview. Not before the scouts arrived. I would deal with my father later, the same way I’d been dealing with everything lately. One thing at a time.

Justin stepped back onto the ice. He glanced back at me over his shoulder and flashed the grin I’d quietly memorized over the past few months. I pressed record.

And tried very hard to pretend nothing had just changed.

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