Cassy
Andrew’s giving an overview, “…So, we’d film on the plane first, during boarding and take-off. Nothing invasive, just casual stuff. Get some shots of the players settling in, checking out the jet, maybe some banter between the pairs.”
Someone nods. I don’t see or care who. My eyes are fixed on the agenda in front of me, but I haven’t absorbed a single word in the last ten minutes.
Three and a half fucking hours of sitting in this boardroom while my stomach’s been eating itself alive.
“Are we assigning a shooter for the hotel check-in?” Suzanna asks, scrolling through her tablet. “We’ll be arriving around 3:00 PM, and I want lobby footage if they’re joking around or giving first impressions. Then we can do the room setups.”
I feel Riley’s eyes slide toward me again. That glance she’s sent my way at least six times this meeting. Not the friendly kind. The ‘what the hell is wrong with you’ kind.
I ignore her.
“Blake and Brody share again,” Gretchen confirms. “Same with Bishy and now Davis. McAvoy and Peters. All are in double-room suites booked at the San Jose Marriott. We’ll get B-roll in the corridor once they’ve gone in.”
“Game-day build-up starts at the hotel on Saturday morning,” Andrew says. “Behind-the-scenes gearing up for the game, bus ride, etc., real up close. That’s all going to give stronger insights into the team rather than the usual pre-skate stuff.”
“It’s a 7:00 PM puck drop at the SV Center,” Susanna adds. “So, we’ll have the crew arrive around five. Any issues with security clearances?”
“No,” Tarquin answers, tapping something into his laptop. “I confirmed with their head of media. We’re good.”
Someone coughs. I flinch at the sound. My nerves feel like they’ve been peeled back to the bare wire.
Fuck. I don’t know if I can do this. Not right now. Not while my life is spiraling into something I don’t recognize.
“We want to hit confessionals late Saturday night,” Riley picks up, steady. “Once they’re back in their rooms, decompressing. Keep the camera setup casual, with minimal lighting. Just them talking. Whatever they feel like saying.”
I lift my coffee cup, even though it’s been empty for an hour, just to have something to hold.
Musa’s voice cuts through the lull. “And then we wrap on Sunday, the 26th. Shoot the airport journey home, get a few last interviews on the bus. Nothing too formal. Keep it all light.”
Light?
The word grates.
“This is all fine,” I manage, and I hate how brittle I sound. I clear my throat. “Just confirming that everyone knows the travel timeline. Friday the 24th, private charter from Harry Reid. Departure is 1:15 PM, arrival at San Jose International atapproximately 2:45 PM. Bus directly to the hotel, and the rest of the plan follows from there.”
A few nods. Some scrolling. Agreement murmured.
“And remember,” Mikey chips in, far too happy for my mood. “Once all the filming's done, I'll be editing all the footage down to thirty minutes. No more.”
And with that obviously gripping piece of information, I've had about as much as I can take. “Okay. Anyone got anything else to add? Or are we done?” My mind keeps replaying THAT night in Sin City when Blake played me like a fool. Just a fucking bet. That's all I was.
“Ah... great,” Andrew says, stretching. “That’s it from my side.”
“Same,” Holly replies.
I close the folder on the desk in front of me, slower than necessary. My hand is unsteady. No one seems to notice.
Everyone begins shifting. Chairs scrape, and people stand. The energy lifts a little.
I stay seated.
Riley lingers behind as the boardroom clears. She doesn’t look at me right away, just gathers her tablet and waits for the last door to close.
Then she looks at me.
“You, okay?”
