bit her tongue on the questions, knowing her role here wasn’t to judge, or even to get involved. It was simply to document. She had to admit that “not getting involved” part had always been tough for her. When she’d documented poverty, she’d helped educate young moms on wise consumer choices at the grocery store. When she’d made a film on the public school system, she’d found herself volunteering for bake sales. But if the woman in front of her wanted to follow a team of athletes around the country, it certainly wasn’t Jen’s job to tell her she could do better than that. Although the temptation lingered.
“How interesting.” She waved over her cameraman. The stands weren’t full for the practice session, so he climbed over the seats to introduce himself to Chelsea before Jennifer explained why she wanted them to meet. “Bryce will be recording a lot of raw footage on this project while we figure out our primary angles for this week’s installment. Would you mind if he tagged along on your road trip? Maybe took some footage of your conversations about the team?”
“Really?” Hopping out of her seat, Chelsea sloshed a little coffee out the top of the cup as she waved over her friends. “Almost like we were in the movie, too?”
A whistle blew on the ice and Jennifer noticed the players congregated around the coach.
“You would be.” Her attention went back to the woman’s wrist where she could have sworn she’d spotted numbers in Phantom blue. An ode to a player? “I’d have to ask you to sign waivers giving us permission to film you and use any footage we obtain, but only a small percentage ever sees the final print.”
There was a brief huddled conversation among the women, but it didn’t take long for Chelsea to pop out of the cluster.
“We’d love to.”
“Great.” Jennifer pulled up the waiver page on her laptop and handed Chelsea the stylus so she could sign it electronically while the players seemed to finish up their practice. “Just make sure Bryce knows where to be and at what time to meet you.”
While the fans thronged the tunnels off the ice for a chance at slapping hands with the exiting players, Chelsea handed the laptop around to her friends so they could each sign the waiver. When she turned back to Jennifer, her expression had clouded, the initial excitement dimmed.
Second thoughts already?
“Is everything okay?” Jennifer asked, not wanting her documentary stars to be second-guessing themselves yet. Any misgivings had to wait until the series was edited and printed.
Although she knew Axel would have reservations every moment of filming until she returned to New York. She respected his privacy, in theory, even if her assignment here proved at odds with his personal preferences. But was there a deeper reason behind how fiercely he protected his privacy? Most athletes saw the benefit of media attention on their careers, and it turned out Axel Rankin was having a banner year on the ice.
Why so camera shy?
“Sure.” Chelsea still held Jennifer’s laptop, her eyes fixed on the ice where Axel and Kyle Murphy—his foster brother, she’d learned in her reading—were laughing with the goalie. “I’m glad the documentary will help the team. Maybe boost ticket sales.”
“It probably will,” Jennifer agreed, trying to see which one of the guys Chelsea had her eye on since all the others had headed to the locker room by now.
She turned back to Jennifer. “But the guys are so great, I almost hate to share them, you know? Kind of like when the newspaper reviews your favorite dive restaurant. Soon everyone’s showing up to try the grub and it’s not the same anymore.”
While Jennifer tried to puzzle through Chelsea’s concerns—lack of access to the players, maybe—she reached for her laptop.
And, as Chelsea extended it, her sleeve lifted higher on her wrist. Revealing #68, Axel Rankin’s jersey number, tattooed on her skin.
THE CAMERAS WERE OUT in full force today.
Axel had noticed as soon as he’d arrived at the practice facility early that morning. Even now, as he waited for Jen to meet him after the team skate, he had to contend with the bright light of a fill flash in his eyes. He’d taken refuge in a practice room to tweak his shot on one of the shooting tarps, but the camera guy had followed him in.
There were three camera operators—all male—who would roam the Phantoms’ facilities over the next month. The team had been introduced to the group at the morning meeting. They would attend games and road trips in addition to occasionally following the players home or around town on errands, nights out or anywhere that might be relevant to the larger story. Besides the film crew with handhelds, there were stationary cameras in the rafters above the ice, in the box where players sat between shifts and in a couple of other common areas.
He’d called his foster parents last night to warn them about the documentary. They didn’t know the extent of his connections to the motorcycle club back in Finland—ties that hadn’t been easily severed. He’d never hidden from the old crew, exactly. He’d known an NHL career gave him a certain amount of visibility, so he’d always been accessible to his enemies. But there’d been a tacit peace these past nine years, with everyone moving on.
Axel wasn’t all that sure the peace would hold if this documentary series found a global audience. What would the old gang think of his high-end lifestyle if they saw pictures up close and personal? Would they be able to forgive what they considered the debt of letting him leave if they could see the evidence of his success from the comfort of their living rooms overseas? He didn’t want to push his luck.
So he’d told the Murphys to be on their toes if anyone called looking for more information on him. The wealthy Murphy family had resources to increase security at their Cape Cod compound and he’d advised them to do so, claiming a rise in public interest could bring out the occasional nut job. Better to be safe.
As Axel found his shooting rhythm on a tarp, he tried to ignore the hum of the Panasonic recording his every move and wondered if Jennifer had stood him up.
With how gung ho she’d been to quiz him about the Phantoms the day before, he’d figured she would bombard him with questions the second he left the ice. But an hour and a half after practice, he still hadn’t seen a sign of her.
Except, of course, in his mind’s eye. She’d set up residence there after yesterday’s close encounter, insinuating herself in his thoughts and making him edgy for more.
“Have you seen Jennifer around?” Axel asked the young guy shouldering the video equipment, breaking protocol by addressing him directly.
But hey, the less usable footage they had of him, the better.
Shutting off the camera, the tall, skinny dude shifted it aside. “She might be in the parking lot, setting things up for one of the crew to ride with some fans to Montreal.”
“Fans?” Surprised and encouraged that she would devote so much film to people who weren’t on the team, Axel decided he’d have to give her a rundown on everyone on the Phantoms support staff.
That alone could occupy a camera for a couple of days.
“Groupies, man.” The kid—twenty at the oldest—grinned. “Four girls that came to the morning skate. You’re living the dream.”
Before
