Page 33 of Take Two

Trevor spreads his arms dramatically, his own skates perfectly stable beneath him. “That still counts.”

“Everyone take fifteen please!” Kirk shouts, pointing toward center ice with the kind of exaggerated gesture that suggests he’s reached the end of his patience. “Can somebody please help number thirty-seven before he kills himself?”

Laughter ripples through the circle of actors as Trevor crosses his arms over his chest in mock indignation, though his grin suggests he’s taking the ribbing in good humor.

The entire arena shifts back into motion as departments begin preparing for another take. Crew members wheel equipment into new positions with the efficiency of a pit crew. Production assistants move between groups carrying updated notes and schedules, their radios crackling with constant communication. Someone from sound confers with a camera operator near the boards while a makeup artist rushes to dab at my forehead like I’ve somehow destroyed her work in the span of a single scene.

The organized chaos no longer surprises me as someone passes me a bottle of water, the plastic cold against my palm. What does surprise me is where my attention goes without conscious direction.

Jamie is already skating toward Trevor.

He reaches the struggling actor before anybody else can move, gliding across the ice with the effortless grace that marks someone who learned to skate before he could properly walk. He immediately starts talking Trevor through whatever mistake almost sent him sprawling.

From where I’m standing, I can’t hear the conversation. The distance is too great, and half the crew is moving between us with equipment carts and cables. The effect Jamie has on the young actor is clear though.

Trevor is nodding his head furiously, clearly hanging on every word. Then he tries the move again, pushing off into the turn before catching his edge and stumbling almost the exact same way.

Jamie demonstrates something with his skates, tracing a controlled arc across the ice before shifting his weight and pushing cleanly out of the turn. He gestures toward Trevor’s feet with the kind of technical precision that makes everything look simple. Trevor nods again, tries it, and immediately repeats the same mistake.

Jamie smiles and even from halfway across the rink, I recognize the expression on his face, the same one I’ve seen during our training sessions.

He’s patient, relaxed, and completely unbothered by the repetition. He’s in his element and it shows in every line of his body as Trevor tries again and this time, he gets it. The difference is immediately obvious, Trevor glides forward smoothly instead of fighting his own momentum.

Jamie claps him on the shoulder in approval and says something that makes the actor grin with genuine pleasure at his success.

The entire correction takes less than a minute. Watching it shouldn’t affect me at all.

Instead, I find myself smiling without conscious thought and wanting his attention in a way that has nothing to do with hockey technique.

The ridiculous part is that I barely need him anymore from a professional standpoint.

The first two training sessions felt indispensable. I needed somebody to explain the difference between looking comfortable on the ice and actually looking like I belonged there. Jamie gave me that foundation. He helped me understand how Daniel Mercer carried himself, the way authority sits in someone’s shoulders when they know their business. He taught me what to pay attention to and, more importantly, what not to think about.

The result is standing on the sidelines with a bottle of water in my hands, going through take after take with hardly any stops for mistakes made by me. This is possibly one of the easiest roles I’ve tackled in years, and I’ve got Jamie to thank for that confidence.

A week into filming, I no longer worry about whether I look convincing in skates. The muscle memory has settled into my body, and Daniel Mercer’s physicality feels natural. Yes, there are always other things to worry over, it’s the nature of being a performer. I worry about line delivery, camera placement, and whether Kirk is going to decide he wants another five takes because somebody missed a mark by three inches. The fundamental fear of looking like an imposter on ice has evaporated though.

Which means Jamie spends most of his time doing what he is actually here to do. Helping the players who need it. The irony is not lost on me. I wanted to keep our interaction professional, maintain some distance for both our sakes.

The better I get at my job, the less reason I have to talk to him. Of course, that only makes me question whether I want that distance at all. I’m not afraid to admit that I’m jealous of every actor who gets his attention, every correction he offers, every moment of his focus that isn’t directed toward me.

“Alright, everybody back to one!”

The assistant director’s voice carries across the rink. Around me, people immediately move again with the choreographed efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Players return to their starting positions. Someone from wardrobe appears beside me long enough to tug my jacket into place before disappearing again.

Across the rink, Jamie remains with the players, answering questions and making small adjustments to their positioning. One of them says something that makes him laugh, the sound warm and genuine. Another asks a question about stick positioning, and a third immediately jumps in with a second question, stopping Jamie mid-demonstration.

He handles all three without missing a beat, dividing his attention seamlessly between them while never making any of them feel rushed or dismissed.

I should be focusing on the reshoot, getting back into Daniel’s headspace for another take. Instead, my attention keeps drifting across the ice like it has a mind of its own. A week ago, I would’ve been annoyed at my lack of focus, worried about my professionalism.

Today, I know exactly what the problem is.

I miss talking to him. I simply enjoy being around him, hearing his voice, watching the way he moves through the world with such quiet confidence. There, I’ve admitted it to myself. Knowing is half the battle, right?

Then the assistant director calls for places, forcing me back into character before I can examine the revelation any further.

The next few hours disappear into the strange distortion of time that only exists on film sets. Entire scenes are completed in minutes while the clock seems to race forward. A ten-second exchange takes forty-five minutes to shoot as cameras move and lighting changes. People rush everywhere at once while somehow remaining exactly where they need to be in this intricate dance.