Caught On Camera: Fake Dating The Hockey Captain

Chapter Three

Sawyer

Mr. Lawson waited until the room cleared out before he even looked at me, which was somehow worse than if he’d just said it in front of everyone.

“Sit down a second.”

I sat back down at my desk like I hadn’t already been standing, bag half on my shoulder, ready to bolt.

He slid my quiz across the desk. A 61 stared back up at me in red pen, circled twice like once wasn’t enough to make the point.

“You know this material,” he said. “I’ve watched you get it right in class discussion. Out loud, you’re one of the sharpest kids in here.”

“Guess I don’t test well.”

“Guess you’re not studying.” He said it flat, not cruel, just done pretending otherwise. “Sawyer, I’ve taught this class for eleven years. I know the difference between a kid who doesn’t get it and a kid who’s out of time to get it. You’re the second one.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You’ve got potential nobody else in this building has, and you’re about two more quizzes like this one away from losing the thing you actually care about.” He tapped the paper. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m telling you the truth because apparently nobody else is.”

“I hear you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He studied me for a second, like he was trying to decide whether I meant it or was just saying what he wanted to hear.

“Go,” he said. “Practice starts soon, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t waste what you’ve worked for, Sawyer.”

I nodded once.

“Yes, sir.”

*******

By the time I hit the hallway, my face already knew what to do without me telling it to.

“Brooks!”

Marcus fell into step beside me, one backpack strap hanging off his shoulder, the zipper half-open, bouncing with every step. He always moved too fast, talked too fast, and somehow had enough energy for the whole day.

“You coming to Jordan’s thing Friday?”

“Depends if we win Thursday.”

“We’re gonna win Thursday. We always win Thursday.” He grinned, then glanced sideways at me. “Are you good though? You look like you just got some bad news.”

“Nothing, just Mr.Lawson being Mr.Lawson.

Boring me to death about the Treaty of Versailles.”

“Ugh, say less.” He laughed and shoved my shoulder before launching into whatever was on his mind next. “Anyway, you seen the new girl? The one with the camera bag?”

“I met her briefly.”

“She’s filming us all season, right? That’s wild.”

“Yeah.” I adjusted my backpack higher on my shoulder. “Wild.”

Marcus peeled off toward his locker with a wave, and before I made it halfway down the hall, Jordan and Diaz slipped into step beside me, arguing over Thursday’s game and whether Coach would switch the second line.

“You still owe me lunch if I score first,” Jordan said.

“In your dreams,” Diaz shot back.

They kept talking over each other, pulling me into the conversation every few seconds. I laughed when I was supposed to. Answered when someone asked me something. Shoved Jordan back when he bumped my shoulder.

********

Coach split us into drills the second we hit the ice, and for forty-five minutes I didn't have to think about anything except the puck, the guys around me and the next play.

"Brooks, tighten that line, you're leaving a gap on the left!"

"On it!"

I skated back, called out a few adjustments, and watched Diaz fix his angle. He nodded when it clicked.

That was the part nobody outside this rink really understood. Being captain wasn’t about the title, the photo, or seeing your name on a board somewhere. It was this. Knowing who needed a push, who needed space, and when the best thing you could do was skate beside someone until they found their footing.

“Good adjustment, Diaz!” I called, and he flashed a proud grin before getting back into position.

Ice was the one place my head finally shut up. No red-circled numbers. No reminders of everything I was getting wrong. Just the puck, the next play, and the chance to prove I deserved to be here.

I didn't want practice to end. That was the honest version of it, the one I wasn't saying out loud to anybody.

Coach Michie caught me by the bench, waited until the rest of the guys had cleared toward the locker room.

"Got a second?"

"Yeah, Coach."

He didn’t say anything right away, just looked at me, trying to figure out what wasn’t adding up.

"Did you talk to your teacher Lawson today?"

I didn't ask how that conversation went. I already knew.

“I’m not gonna yell at you, Sawyer. That’s not what this is.” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. For once, he didn’t seem like my coach. He just seemed like he cared and was trying to find the right words. “You’re the best captain I’ve had in this program. I mean that.”

"But."

"But I can't fix this for you. Eligibility rules aren't something I get to bend, no matter how much I want to. If your grades don't come up, there's nothing , and I mean nothing I can do to keep you on this team." He held my eyes. "I need you to hear that as help, not a threat. Because I am trying to help you. I just don't know how, past telling you the truth."

"I understand that coach."

"Do you?"

Everybody kept asking me that today like there was a version of the answer besides yes.

"I'll figure it out," I said.

“I know you will, son.” He tapped my shoulder and gave me a small nod. It was the same thing he did after a win, but somehow this felt heavier. “You’re worth more than a scoreboard, Sawyer. Don’t forget that.”

********

The house smelled like roasted chicken and something simmering on the stove by the time I got in, and my little sister barreled into my legs before I’d even shut the door.

“Sawyer! Did you win?”

“The game’s not until Thursday, squirt.”

“Oh.” She looked personally offended by this information. “Well, can I come watch on Thursday?”

“Of course. You always do.”

"I know, I just like hearing you say yes."

Mom looked up from the stove, wooden spoon still in hand. "Wash up, dinner's almost ready. How was the first day back?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

“Good, actually. There’s a documentary crew following the team this season.” I kept my voice casual. “The new girl’s a film student.

“That’s exciting.” She smiled, clearly interested and ready to ask more about it later. “Your father’s excited about Thursday’s game. Already talking about the lineup at breakfast.”

Of course he was.

He was already at the table when I sat down, telling the same story about his senior season, when he scored twice in a playoff game. You’d think it happened yesterday, not twenty years ago.

“Are you keeping your grades up?” he asked, barely stopping for breath. “It doesn’t matter how good you are on the ice if you can’t stay eligible. I’ve seen talented kids throw away opportunities because they let their grades slip.”

"I'm on top of it, Dad."

“Good. That’s my boy.” He reached over, ruffled my hair like I was still eight, then launched right back into his story before I’d even finished my sentence.

I ate. I laughed at my sister’s knock-knock joke. I told my mom dinner was good.

I didn’t tell any of them about the quiz in my back pocket.

I didn’t tell them because there wasn’t a version of that conversation that didn’t end with my dad looking disappointed. I’d rather carry the grade myself than watch that happen over dinner.

Shower. Dishes. My sister’s bedtime negotiation, which she lost, same as every night. The house went quiet, one room at a time, until it was just me, the desk lamp, and a stack of books I hadn’t opened since this morning.

I sat down and opened my history textbook to the chapter Mr.Lawson had marked with a sticky note. He’d even written the page number so I wouldn’t have to look for it.

I read the first paragraph.

Then I read it again.

The words were there on the page, technically in order, technically English, but none of them stayed. I could repeat them back if someone asked. I just couldn’t tell them what any of it meant.

I checked the time. 9:14.

I read the paragraph again.

Somehow, when I checked the time again, it was 10:06.

Almost an hour, and I was still stuck on the same page, staring at the same three sentences. Going over them again and again, like a drill I couldn’t get right no matter how many times I ran it.

I thought about my dad ruffling my hair like the number in my back pocket wasn’t sitting there at all.

I shut the book harder than I meant to. The sound cut through the quiet house. For a while, I just sat there with my hands resting on the cover, feeling completely stuck.

If I couldn’t even get through one paragraph on my own, I didn’t know how I was supposed to make it through Thursday. Or the next one. Or the one after that. Eventually, there wouldn’t be enough time left to catch up.