Page 16 of He Has Pluck

But it’s not the last thing I miss because it’s impossible for one camera to catch all the action, and no kidding, there are television cameras all over the place doing a live telecast. So I focus on the bench more often because that’s where the insider action takes place, and it becomes clear with all the crowd noise that I will have to mic up the coach and the bench area if I’m going to get any good audio.

That was one of many of my so-called rookie mistakes tonight, which I intend to make up for immediately and before anyone else—namely Dan—finds a need to tell me about it.

Despite the rigorous demand of filming everything, at least for this first game, I don’t take a break between periods because I know the locker room is where my sweet spot lives, where all the juice gathers, the honey pot that the fans will drool to see.

Following the team inside after the first period, I flinch at the stench of sweat, but not just any sweat because there’s a special flavor to this room that I’ve never experienced. And if I thought the jungles of Columbia got a person hot and sweaty, they have nothing on hockey players in the locker room of an NHL game between periods.

A couple of kids run around the room, squirting water bottles at guys and handing them out, but more water goes on their heads than down their throats. The coach writes on a whiteboard, drawing diagrams and talking strategy. The players listen silently, resting yet alert like you could drop a bomb and their attention would remain riveted on Coach Green.

No one notices me, and I relish the invisibility. It’s how I do my job best. It’s how to capture the authentic subject matter. Of course, the only problem is that most of it is boring, lacks drama and will end up on the cutting room floor. A few splices of the authentic quiet moments go a long way to give the flavor of realism.

This is only the first game I’m filming, the second to the last game of the season. One more game and the season is over. Then there’s a week before the playoffs, and the Brawlers will play at least four more games in the first round, maybe more. They’re favored to win the first series and likely the second. That means at least four more weeks on this project or up to eight, depending on how long each series goes.

The specter of exhaustion flashes through my mind before I crack down on it. I’ll need to regulate my sleeping and eating and fit in some workouts if I’m going to keep up with the team because following them around with a camera for eight to ten hours a day isn’t going to be easy. I need to talk to Ruminski about adding a second camera, and I know just the guy for the job.

I don’t let myself return to the question of why I’m doing this. I just close my eyes for a moment and then follow the team back for the second and then the third period. When the game is over, I get a shot of the scoreboard on the jumbotron at center ice shouting out the win, five to two.

The post-game locker room is far different than between periods or at practices. This room is more like a party of male hormones, a gluttonous display of masculinity like I’ve never seen before. And this time, if I thought I could remain anonymous in my corner, I was mistaken because these men insist that I’m part of the celebration, part of the team.

“Come on out of that corner and join us,” Finn says, tugging on my camera arm until I’m close to the center of the room.

“I’m Ryan O’Rourke,” a tall buff guy says, but even with his shirt off, I know who he is.

“Congratulations on your new baby boy,” I say. His surprise turns into a grin.

“Thank you. I’m stoked. I have it all now. A fucking perfect family, a fucking kickass team and big fucking win tonight to clinch our home ice advantage to the finals.”

I film him and give him a thumbs up and roll my hand for him to keep going.

“She’s making a movie, so you need to fucking move,” Jason says, aiming a mocking smile at me.

“Just ignore me, and do what you do,” I say, backing up so I can catch them all.

“We celebrate. That’s what we do,” Finn says.

“We undress,” Tony G says, back to leering at me until Jason shoves him out of the way. I’m unsure if it’s playful or part of the team dynamics, but no one bats an eye.

“Go ahead. Undress,” I say, pointing my camera at Jason. That girlie—or I should say lady part in me—squeals in delight. Fuck that. I remind myself and my lady parts that I’m off men, and they’re going to have to make do with my old stand-by, a vibrator named Stanley, for no good reason.

Jason gives me a smoldering look and stands, grabs a towel and whips it in my direction.

Then he says, “You want me to undress, darlin’? I’ll undress.” His smile is pure hot evil as he unlaces his pants, swaying to some invisible music. But the boys—because I can no longer think of them as men—hoot and whistle and some of them play out the tune of the stripper with their crude, over-excited humming. And I film it as I try to keep detached while having a hell of a time doing so after he drops his hockey pants, and I see he’s wearing briefs with a built-in cup and a garter belt to hold up those striped socks. He lets the socks drop next, and the humming pitches higher and so does the heat of my body.

My ability to stay detached strains to the breaking point, kind of like the way his cup must be straining because it’s fucking obvious to me he’s an excited boy as his gaze never leaves mine. Even through the camera’s lens, I feel the distilled energy of his heated gaze aimed at me, the kind best served in a bedroom.

Then he grins wide and wraps the towel around his hips before reaching up and pulling off those briefs. They clatter to the floor. He stands facing me, no more grin, and only a towel between him and the wide world, covering him like a tent where the dark hair trails from his belly to the motherlode of treasures. I gulp down the drool that threatens to dribble from my mouth because, damn, that man is hot. And fuck if he doesn’t know it.

He turns and saunters off toward the showers, calling out over his shoulder, “Show’s over.” He looks my way as he turns the corner. “And that was a one-time performance, Ice Chip.” He says it like he knows he melted me like his entire purpose was to make me sizzle in my fucking jeans. Because today I’m not even wearing panties, and that was a big mistake.

“New guy is something else,” Tony G says. “He has balls the size of his fucking head.” He snorts.

“It was all in fun,” Finn says, sliding a glance at me. “He knows how to have fun. I knew it the minute he walked in here.”

Tony G shakes his head. The others are joking and dressing without fanfare and darting their eyes in my direction now and again like they’re measuring my temperature.

O’Rourke pulls on a wool peacoat, hefts a duffel on his shoulder and stops at my side, out of the line of my camera, on his way out. “I hope you weren’t offended by that.”

I laugh. “I’m in a fucking men’s locker room. I have no right to be offended by anything I see. As long as no one touches me, I’m fine.” He nods. “Aren’t you waiting for the coach?” I ask.