Chapter 1: New Assignment, Bad First Impression

Sophie Bennett hated sports media for the same reason she hated group projects, eight a.m. classes, and boys who wore backwards hats indoors.

Too much ego. Too much noise. Too many people acting like one tiny corner of the world mattered more than everything else.

She adjusted the strap of her camera bag higher on her shoulder and stared up at the gray stone entrance of Halstead Arena like it had personally offended her. Above the glass doors, a massive banner stretched across the front of the building.

MERCY STATE HOCKEY

HOME OF THE WOLVES

Underneath the words was a photo of the team in full gear, all hard stares and broad shoulders and fake intimidation. Right in the center stood the captain, Ryan Mercer, holding his stick in gloved hands like he had been born for sports posters and expensive cologne commercials.

Even from the photo, he looked arrogant.

Sophie rolled her eyes and pulled open the arena door.

A blast of cold air hit her first, followed by the sharp smell of ice, rubber, and something faintly metallic. The arena had a strange energy even when it was mostly empty. It felt bigger than it should have, the vaulted ceiling holding onto echoes from old games and roaring crowds. Her boots clicked against the concrete floor as she headed toward the media office tucked along the side corridor.

She pushed open the door with her shoulder.

Inside, space heaters hummed against cinder block walls covered in framed team posters, event schedules, and a crooked whiteboard full of assignment notes. Two other student media assistants sat at the central table, one editing highlight footage, the other half asleep over a laptop.

Her supervisor, Nate Collins, stood by the printer holding a stack of papers and the permanent expression of a man who had not sat down voluntarily in four years.

“There she is,” he said. “Bennett, perfect.”

That word alone made her suspicious.

Sophie set her bag down carefully. “Why do you say my last name like I am already about to regret something?”

Nate gave her a smile that confirmed exactly that. “Because I have a great opportunity for you.”

“Terrifying.”

He handed her a clipboard.

She looked down.

WOLVES MEN’S HOCKEY MEDIA COVERAGE

Practice footage, player interviews, behind the scenes content, social clips, photo selects.

Her eyes lifted slowly. “No.”

Nate crossed his arms. “That was fast. You did not even pretend to consider it.”

“I did. Internally. It was a no there too.”

“You are one of the best with video.”

“I am one of the only people here who actually frames shots before pressing record.”

“Exactly.”

Sophie dropped the clipboard onto the table like it might infect her. “Put Jason on it.”

Jason looked up from his laptop. “Absolutely not.”

Nate ignored them both. “The football interns are overloaded, basketball is quiet this week, and hockey needs someone consistent. Their season content underperforms online every year because nobody knows how to make the team look interesting.”

She stared at him. “Maybe because hockey is just men crashing into glass and growing mustaches for no reason.”

Jason snorted.

Nate pointed at her. “See, that right there. You have opinions. Opinions are useful. You will find an angle.”

“Yes. My angle is that hockey players are always one bad grade away from starting a podcast.”

Jason choked on his coffee.

Nate was unmoved. “Practice starts in twenty minutes.”

Sophie narrowed her eyes. “You already assigned me before asking.”

“I knew you would resist.”

“That is manipulative.”

“That is management.”

She let out a long breath through her nose and glanced back at the clipboard. Covering campus sports was not why she had transferred to Mercy State. She had come here to finish her journalism degree quietly, keep her head down, and avoid the kind of drama that had turned her last year at Easton College into a social and academic circus.

She wanted feature writing. Investigative pieces. Human stories. Not filming boys on skates trying to body-check each other into another zip code.

Still, the media office paid her enough to cover textbooks and groceries, and Nate controlled her hours.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if one of them asks me what lens I’m using so he can sound smart in front of his teammates, I am quitting on the spot.”

Nate grinned. “That is the spirit.”

“It is actually the opposite of spirit.”

He was already gathering batteries off a shelf. “The team will be on the ice at four. Get warm-up shots, drills, some close-ups, maybe talk to Mercer after if he is cooperative.”

“Cooperative?” Sophie repeated. “That does not sound promising.”

Nate paused just long enough to give her a look. “Mercer is not difficult.”

“That face says otherwise.”

“He is focused.”

“That is always code for rude.”

Nate handed her an access badge. “Try not to antagonize the captain in the first ten minutes.”

She slipped the badge around her neck. “No promises.”

By the time Sophie reached the rink entrance, she had decided three things.

First, arenas were way colder than they had any right to be.

Second, her coffee had not done nearly enough.

Third, if even one player winked at her like he had never seen a woman hold a camera before, she was going to fake a medical emergency and leave.

The practice rink opened up in front of her in a sweep of white ice and blue lines, the boards circling the surface under bright overhead lights. Skates carved across the ice in clean sharp cuts. Pucks snapped off sticks and clattered against the glass. Coaches barked short commands from the benches.

It was louder than she expected, even without a crowd.

Louder and somehow more intense.

The players moved fast, too fast for her eye to settle on just one. Navy jerseys flashed across the rink. Sticks blurred. Someone slammed another player into the boards with a crack that made her flinch.

“First time?”

Sophie turned.

A blond guy in team gear leaned against the tunnel wall beside her, grinning like he had caught her in a crime. No helmet, no gloves. Probably injured or off rotation. He had the easy confidence of someone who had been told he was charming since middle school.

“No,” Sophie said flatly. “I just always look delighted when two hundred pound men throw each other into plexiglass.”

He laughed. “You are the new media girl.”

She blinked. “Media girl.”

“Sorry. Media person.”

“You were so close.”

He stuck out a hand through a sheepish smile. “Evan Brooks. Defense.”

She shifted her camera into one hand and shook his. “Sophie Bennett. Person with a camera.”

“Welcome to the circus.”

“That is exactly what I was afraid of.”

Evan glanced toward the ice. “You are covering us for the rest of the season?”

“Not if I can fake a convincing enough illness.”

He laughed again, easier this time, and nodded toward center ice. “Well, if you want content, there is your guy.”

Sophie followed his gaze and found the player from the banner immediately.

Ryan Mercer.

Even among the rest of the team, he stood out.

He was taller than most of the others, broad through the shoulders, moving with the kind of controlled speed that made everything around him look messier by comparison. Dark hair curled damply at the back of his neck beneath his helmet. His jersey clung to him in places from sweat and effort. He called something to a teammate, sharp and short, and the whole line adjusted instantly.

No smile. No wasted motion. No showmanship.

Just intensity.

Sophie lifted her camera and took a few test shots through the glass.

His face was even more severe up close through the lens. Strong jaw. Straight nose. Eyes that looked cold even from half a rink away.

“Captain,” Evan said. “Future professional pain in everybody’s ass.”

“Good to know.”

“He is not that bad.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

Evan laughed. “Mercer just does not do small talk.”

“Perfect. Neither do I.”

“That should go well.”

Sophie gave him a dry smile and moved down along the boards for better angles.

She slipped into work mode quickly after that. It was the one thing that always steadied her. Framing shots. Tracking motion. Catching details other people missed.

A player spraying ice after a hard stop.

The coach’s hand slicing through the air during instruction.

Tape peeling slightly at the heel of a stick blade.

Breath rising in clouds near the bench.

She hated to admit it, but hockey did look good on camera.

Not because of the players themselves. Because of the speed. The violence held inside structure. The flashes of chaos contained by lines and timing and rules. It forced attention.

She circled to the bench side for close-up footage as practice shifted into drill work. One assistant coach gave her a brief nod of permission. Nobody else paid much attention, which suited her just fine.

Until the whistle blew for a short break.

Players coasted toward the bench, gloves coming off, helmets tipped back, breathing hard. Sophie stayed near the open gate to get water bottle shots and candid footage.

And then she heard a low voice beside her.

“You are in the wrong place.”

She turned.

Ryan Mercer stood just outside the bench gate, one gloved hand resting on his stick, his expression unreadable. Up close, he was even more unfairly put together than she wanted him to be. His features were sharp in that clean, athletic way that made people forgive bad personalities. His eyes moved once to the camera in her hands, then back to her face.

Sophie lifted her chin. “Interesting. I thought this was exactly the place I was assigned.”

“This area is for team staff.”

She glanced at the assistant coach ten feet away who had clearly let her in. “Good thing I was cleared, then.”

Ryan’s gaze did not change. “You are blocking the trainers.”

She stepped half a foot to the left. “Fixed.”

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then he said, “Practice footage is usually taken from outside the glass.”

“Maybe for people who like boring footage.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly. “Or for people who know when not to get in the way.”

There it was.

The exact tone she expected from a campus golden boy who thought every room bent around him.

Sophie smiled, but not pleasantly. “You could have just said you do not like cameras this close.”

“I do not care about the camera.”

“Then what do you care about?”

His jaw shifted. “People doing their jobs well.”

Something hot and immediate sparked in her chest.

It had been a long time since someone had managed to irritate her that quickly.

She adjusted her grip on the camera strap. “That is funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”

One of his teammates behind him let out a tiny sound that might have been a choked laugh.

Ryan did not react to it. He only held her gaze for one beat longer, then turned away like dismissing her required no effort at all.

“Stay clear of the gate,” he said.

Then he stepped back onto the ice.

Sophie stared after him, momentarily too annoyed to even blink.

Evan skated past the bench and threw her a quick apologetic look. Another player muttered, “Good luck,” under his breath as he grabbed a towel.

She wanted to leave. Or maybe hit Ryan Mercer with her tripod. She had not decided which.

Instead, she planted herself farther down the boards, lifted her camera, and filmed the rest of practice with twice as much focus and three times as much spite.

If Ryan Mercer thought she was going to be intimidated by a set jaw and a bad attitude, he was deeply confused.

For the next thirty minutes, she learned more about him than she wanted to.

He ran drills with brutal precision. Corrected teammates without softening the edges. Took every rep like it mattered. When one freshman fumbled a pass, Ryan circled back, said something curt, then demonstrated the movement again himself. Not flashy. Just exact.

Nobody ignored him.

Not because they liked him.

Because he was good.

Annoyingly good.

And there was something else, something that did not fit the arrogant-athlete stereotype she had already assigned him. He kept scanning the bench between drills. Not casually. Deliberately. Like he was checking on something.

At first she thought maybe he was tracking line changes or listening for coach instructions.

Then she noticed it again.

And again.

His eyes moved toward the equipment area near the end of the bench. Toward the racks of spare sticks, helmets, gloves, and medical bags. Quick looks. Controlled. Almost hidden.

Sophie lowered the camera slightly.

That was odd.

She followed his line of sight. Nothing jumped out immediately. Just the usual chaos of practice. Open water bottles. Towels tossed on the boards. A trainer kneeling by a bag. Tape rolls. Skates.

Still, something about the way Ryan kept checking bothered her. It did not look like normal captain behavior.

It looked like suspicion.

The whistle blew again.

This time the players lined up for rush drills, moving end to end at full speed. Sophie caught several beautiful sequences on camera and almost forgot her irritation until Ryan cut across the slot and snapped a shot top shelf so fast she barely tracked it.

The puck slammed into the back of the net.

A couple of players smacked their sticks on the ice in approval.

Ryan did not celebrate. He turned immediately and skated back toward the bench.

As he passed near the boards, his eyes flicked to hers for half a second.

Not flirtation. Not interest.

A warning.

Sophie frowned.

What exactly was his problem?

Practice began winding down after five. Players peeled off the ice in clusters, talking louder now that the hard work was done. The coaches gathered near center. The trainers started collecting scattered gear.

Sophie stayed back to capture exit footage and locker room door shots for B-roll. Her fingers were numb despite the gloves stuffed in her coat pockets. She was debating whether to push for a post-practice quote from literally anyone except Ryan Mercer when movement near the bench caught her eye.

One of the backup goalies had stopped short beside the equipment rack.

He bent, picked up a helmet, frowned, then called for the trainer.

Sophie instinctively zoomed in.

The trainer took the helmet, turned it over, and his expression changed.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

He said something low to the goalie, then glanced toward the coaches. The goalie looked irritated, confused. The trainer ran a thumb along the chin strap, then the side fastening clip.

Even from where she stood, Sophie could see it was wrong.

The strap hung by a thin split section, nearly severed.

Not worn down from age. Not loose.

Cut.

Her pulse gave a small, strange kick.