Chapter One
1830 Words
Melanie:
“You have your schedule? Your locker combo? Please tell me you didn’t lose the locker combination again.”
“I have it, Mom.”
“Because last time—”
“Mom.” My hand was already on the door handle. “I’ve done this a lot. I know how first days work.”
She didn’t pull away from the curb. Her hands stayed tight on the steering wheel, like letting go of it meant letting go of me.
“This one is going to be the last one, Mel. No more boxes and no more goodbyes to people you just met.”
“Sure.”
The word came out too quickly. If I slowed down, it’d crack something open I didn’t have time to deal with.
“See you at four.”
I was out of the car before she could say anything that might actually stick.
Film school applications were only a few months away, and the Senior Showcase documentary was supposed to be the strongest piece in my portfolio. If I could survive one more first day without embarrassing myself, I’d call that a decent start.
The building was bigger than the last one. They usually were. Every new town seemed determined to convince me it’d be different. I’d learned that lesson early enough not to believe it anymore.
A guy on a skateboard nearly clipped me at the bike racks, called out, “My bad,” without slowing down, and disappeared around the corner.
The receptionist looked up as soon as I walked through the front doors.
“You must be Melanie Carter.”
“That’s me.”
“The principal is expecting you. Second door on the left.”
“I guess word travels fast around here.”
“Well, you’re the only new senior on the list today. Not exactly hard math.”
She smiled like she’d made that joke before and still enjoyed it.
I thanked her and knocked once before stepping inside.
“Melanie Carter. Senior transfer…” The principal barely looked up from her computer. “Bold time to switch schools.”
“I didn’t exactly plan it.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“You’re enrolled in the Senior Showcase. Film concentration, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you don’t need me. You need Bennett.”
She scribbled a room number across a sticky note so fast the pen nearly tore through it.
“Down the hall, past the trophy case.”
She handed it to me.
“You can’t miss it.”
“Is that a warning or a threat?”
That finally made her look up.
She studied me for a second before one eyebrow lifted.
“A little of both.”
Past the trophy case, she’d said.
She wasn’t kidding.
State championship trophies lined the glass shelves beside framed team photos, rows of them, gold and silver catching the hallway light like the school had decided this was the one thing worth putting under glass. Somewhere behind me two guys were arguing about a scrimmage lineup like their lives depended on it. I didn’t stop to figure out why.
One picture caught my eye for exactly a second.
A hockey player stood in the middle of the crowd, a championship trophy raised over his head while everyone around him celebrated like they’d just won the lottery.
I kept walking.
Definitely not my problem.
Mr. Bennett’s room smelled like old film reels and coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. He spent almost a full minute flipping through my portfolio without saying a word.
I had to fight the urge to fill the silence.
“You filmed this laundromat piece by yourself?” he asked. “At two in the morning?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s either very brave or very stupid.”
“Can’t it be both?”
A laugh escaped him.
“I like you already.”
I smiled.
“What do you want to do after high school?”
“I want to direct.”
The answer came without thinking.
“More than anything.”
“I thought so.”
He closed the folder and slid another one toward me.
“Then this semester matters.”
I reached for it.
“The senior documentary project.”
“So I get to pitch an idea?”
“You get assigned one.”
“…Oh.”
“Everyone does.”
I nodded, already bracing for something dull.
A club.
A bake sale.
“You will be documenting the Northridge Wolves.”
“The hockey team?”
“That’s right.”
“But I’ve never filmed sports before.”
“Good.”
I blinked.
“I also know almost nothing about hockey.”
“That’s even better.”
“How is that better?”
“You’ll ask questions everyone else stopped asking.”
He said it like it was obvious, like ignorance was a tool instead of a handicap.
“Fresh eyes see what tired ones stop noticing.”
“That’s either very reassuring or you’re just making up excuses for handing me a topic I didn’t choose.”
“Can’t it be both?”
This time I laughed.
He leaned back in his chair.
“You know what the biggest mistake student filmmakers make?”
“I’m guessing you’re about to tell me.”
“They think they’re making documentaries about events.”
He tapped the folder between us.
“Games. Championships. Tournaments.”
“Aren’t they?”
“Not if they’re any good.”
I frowned.
“The best documentaries are about people. Hockey is just the setting. If all you come back with is goals and highlights, then, you’ve missed the story.”
I looked down at the folder again.
“So what am I actually filming?”
“Pressure. Expectations. Wins. Losses. The moments nobody notices because they’re too busy watching the scoreboard.”
I looked back up.
“That sounds… a lot less terrifying than filming hockey.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Good.”
He tapped the folder once more.
“Because by the end of the semester, you’ll understand both.”
I looked down at the title again.
“Documenting the Northridge Wolves: Behind the Season.”
“You’ll mainly be following the team captain.”
He tapped the first page.
“Sawyer Brooks.”
“Is he difficult?”
“He’s popular.”
A corner of his mouth twitched.
“There’s a difference, but you’ll figure out which one applies.”
Before I could ask another question, someone knocked once and pushed the door open.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Mr. Bennett didn’t even glance up.
“Speak of the devil.”
I looked toward the door.
The guy standing there wore a black Wolves hoodie like he’d forgotten he owned anything else. He carried himself with the easy confidence that made it seem like he’d never questioned whether he belonged somewhere—like the room had been waiting for him to walk into it, not the other way around.
Then it clicked.
The trophy case.
The photo, he was the same guy.
“Melanie,” Mr. Bennett said. “This is Sawyer Brooks.”
Sawyer looked at me, and there was a half-second of assessment in it.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“You’re the new student?”
“Yeah.”
He held out a hand.
“I’m Sawyer.”
I shook it.
“Melanie.”
“Welcome to Northridge.” A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, easy, like he handed it out to everyone. “Fair warning, the trophy case makes it look more impressive than it actually is.”
“I noticed.”
“Everyone notices. That’s kind of the point of putting it right by the front door.”
“Efficient marketing.”
“We try.”
His grin widened just enough for me to notice.
“So what’s your deal? New town, new school, new everything?”
“Something like that.”
“Must be tough.”
“I’ve had practice.”
That earned me another look, a longer one this time, like he was quietly recalibrating whatever first impression he’d formed.
Mr. Bennett stood, gathering a few papers from his desk.
“Sawyer, give me a minute.”
“No problem.”
He started toward the hallway, then paused.
“I’ll see you around, Melanie.”
“I guess you will.”
His grin returned, smaller this time, before he disappeared through the doorway.
The room felt strangely quieter after he left.
I slipped my notebook into my bag.
“So…” I glanced at the folder again. “Do I just show up with a camera?”
Mr. Bennett chuckled.
“Not on day one.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll introduce you to the coach after school tomorrow. He’ll go over what you can and can’t film.”
“There are rules?”
“There are always rules.”
He crossed his arms.
“They’re teenagers. Some moments belong on camera. Others don’t.”
“That’s fair.”
“You’ll get a practice schedule, game schedule, travel schedule when necessary, and media clearance forms.”
“Media clearance?”
“You’ll be around them a lot.”
That hadn’t really sunk in until he said it out loud.
“A lot?”
“You can’t make a documentary from the bleachers.”
Before I could decide whether that was exciting or terrifying, his expression shifted.
“Oh.”
He glanced toward the hallway.
“I almost forgot.”
He stepped outside.
“Hold on a second.”
I busied myself zipping my bag, but the zipper snagged on the fabric.
Of course it did.
By the time I finally freed it, their voices had dropped.
“Sawyer.”
“Your grades.”
“If this keeps up, you already know what happens.”
“No hockey.”
Silence.
No captaincy. And every scholarship offer disappears the second your transcript does.
“I know.”
“You need to fix it.”
“I’ll fix it, Mr. Bennett.”
There wasn’t any attitude in his voice.
No excuses.
Just… exhaustion.
Like this wasn’t the first conversation he’d had about it.
I quietly pulled my bag onto my shoulder and slipped out before either of them noticed I was still there.
So much for making a documentary about something I actually understood.
Instead, my film school portfolio now depended on a sport I knew almost nothing about—and a hockey captain whose future seemed to be hanging by a report card.
“Mel?”
I stopped so suddenly someone behind me muttered, “Watch it.”
My fingers tightened around the strap of my camera bag.
Nobody here was supposed to know that nickname.
Nobody.
I turned anyway.
Because some stupid, traitorous part of me already knew exactly whose voice it was.
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