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I was late. So very, impossibly late.

"Come on, come on!" I muttered, willing the campus bus to materialize out of thin air. No such luck. Of course, the one day I absolutely couldn't be late to the newspaper office would be the day the campus transit system decided to take a collective holiday.

Cursing under my breath, I adjusted my camera bag and took off running across the quad, dodging sleepy students and nearly tripping over someone's sprawled legs. The weight of my equipment thumped rhythmically against my hip, each impact a reminder of exactly how much I'd invested in my passion.

My passion, which was currently not paying the bills.

Last night had been another 3 AM darkroom session, developing photos for my portfolio while simultaneously trying to calculate if I could afford both next semester's tuition and the rent on my apartment. The math wasn't looking good, no matter how many times I reshuffled the numbers. Something had to give, and it wasn't going to be my degree. Not when I was so close.

I was so lost in financial anxiety that I didn't notice the uneven paving stone until my foot caught it. I lurched forward, throwing out my hands to catch myself. My worn camera bag swung violently forward, smacking against a low brick wall with a sickening thud.

My heart leaped into my throat. I clutched the bag to my chest, hands shaking as I frantically unzipped it to check my precious, second-hand Camera and the lens I'd spent six months saving for. If they were damaged...

I couldn't even finish the thought. The repair costs would be catastrophic.

With trembling fingers, I examined the padding around the lens. Everything seemed intact. Relief washed over me so intensely that my knees actually weakened. I sank onto the nearest bench, cradling my camera bag like a wounded child.

"Get it together, Mia," I whispered to myself. One near-disaster was enough for the morning.

By the time I finally burst through the doors of the university newspaper office, I was sweaty, disheveled, and fifteen minutes late. The office was its usual weekday morning chaos—student journalists hunched over laptops, phones ringing, the ancient coffee maker gurgling ominously in the corner.

"There she is!" called a familiar voice. "I was about to send out a search party—or at least an annoyed text."

Olivia Martinez, my best friend and roommate, sat at her desk near the windows, typing furiously on her laptop. As the paper's star reporter, she'd somehow snagged the desk with the best lighting and proximity to the coffee maker.

"Bus didn't show," I explained, dropping into the chair across from her. "Again."

"The university transit system—bringing students together through shared trauma and collective rage since 1985." Olivia pushed her half-eaten breakfast sandwich toward me. "You look like you need this more than I do."

I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the smell of egg and cheese hit me. "You're a lifesaver."

"I know." She studied my face with narrowed eyes. "You look terrible. And not just regular late-for-a-meeting terrible. This is advanced terrible. Level ten terrible. This is 'stayed-up-all-night-worrying-about-money-again' terrible."

I took a bite of sandwich instead of answering. Olivia had an uncanny ability to read my stress levels, which was both comforting and occasionally annoying.

"Ah, I see. Your silence confirms my diagnosis." She dramatically placed her wrist against my forehead. "Symptoms include bloodshot eyes, financial anxiety, and an unhealthy attachment to that camera. Treatment requires immediate gossip infusion and possibly emergency chocolate, which I happen to have stashed for journalistic emergencies."

She pulled a candy bar from her desk drawer and slid it across to me.

"It's not that bad," I lied, accepting the chocolate anyway.

"Mmmhmm." Olivia wasn't convinced. "Well, speaking of things that aren't that bad, have you seen the latest about our university's pride and joy?"

She turned her laptop toward me. On the screen was a draft of an article about the hockey team's recent victory.

"'Wright Leads Wolves to Stunning Victory,'" I read aloud, raising an eyebrow. "Stunning?"

"Not my choice of words." Olivia took the laptop back. "If it were up to me, the headline would be 'Overprivileged Jocks Chase Rubber Disc, University Rejoices.'"

I snorted. "Tell us how you really feel."

"Oh, I'm saving that for my exposé on the athletic department's budget compared to the arts programs." She cleared her throat and began reading in an exaggerated sports announcer voice: "'Team captain Ethan Wright demonstrated exceptional leadership, scoring the winning goal with just twenty seconds remaining in the final period. Wright's performance has drawn attention from several NHL scouts, with rumors of first-round draft potential circulating among hockey insiders.'"

She looked up at me. "I've been watching sports channels. How am I doing?"

"You missed your calling as a sports commentator."

"Please. If I had to spend my career talking about pucks and balls with that level of reverence, I'd throw myself into the hockey net." She continued in her announcer voice: "'The Wolves' victory solidifies their position at the top of the conference standings, with Wright's sixteen goals this season setting a new university record—all while maintaining his perfect hair and brooding expression that makes freshman girls swoon.'"

I laughed. "I'm pretty sure that last part isn't in the actual article."

"It should be. That's actual journalism—telling the whole story." Olivia grinned, then looked past me. "Heads up. Editor alert."

I turned to see Mark, the newspaper's editor-in-chief, waving me over to his cluttered desk. My stomach clenched. I still didn't know why he'd asked for this meeting.

"Wish me luck," I murmured to Olivia.

"Break a lens," she replied cheerfully.

I made my way to Mark's desk, mentally preparing for bad news. Maybe they were cutting the photography department's already minuscule budget? Or worse, maybe someone had complained about my latest gallery installation in the student union?

"Mia, thanks for coming in." Mark gestured to the chair across from him. "Sorry for the mysterious summons."

"No problem." I perched on the edge of the seat, camera bag safely in my lap.

"I'll get right to it. Jake broke his leg yesterday. Skateboarding accident, apparently involving the library stairs and a dare from his roommate."

Jake was the paper's sports photographer, a perpetually rumpled senior with a talent for action shots.

"That's terrible," I said. "Is he okay?"

"Three fractures and a cast for the next three months." Mark ran a hand through his hair, looking harried. "Which leaves us without a photographer for the hockey season. Their next game is Saturday."

I blinked. "Wait, are you asking me to—"

"Fill in as sports photographer, yes." Mark leaned forward. "It would be a paid position, of course. Same rate as Jake was getting."

My heart skipped. Jake's sports photography position was one of the few paid gigs at the paper, specifically because of the irregular hours and technical skill required.

"How much?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

He named a figure that would cover my rent and photography supplies, with a bit left over. Not enough to solve all my financial problems, but enough to ease the immediate pressure.

"The catch is, you'd need to start immediately," Mark continued. "Team practice tomorrow morning, game coverage Saturday night, and regular coverage throughout the season. Can you handle that?"

Could I handle photographing a bunch of entitled athletes chasing a puck around an ice rink? For that amount of money?

"Absolutely," I said firmly. "I'll need to brush up on hockey basics, but I can handle the photography part no problem."

Mark looked relieved. "Great. You'll need to coordinate with Coach Alvarez about access to practices and games. His email's in the staff directory."

"No problem."

"Oh, and Mia?" Mark added as I stood to leave. "This could be a good portfolio piece. Sports photography is technically challenging, but it tells stories. Action, emotion, triumph, defeat—all that human drama stuff that galleries eat up."

I nodded, though privately I doubted that photos of sweaty hockey players would elevate my artistic portfolio. But money was money, and right now, that mattered more than artistic purity.

"You're doing WHAT?" Olivia's voice reached a pitch I'd never heard before as we entered our apartment that evening. "YOU? Photographing the HOCKEY TEAM? The same hockey team you've been ranting about for three years?"

I dropped my bag on our secondhand couch and headed for the kitchen. "It's just photography. I'm not joining the cheerleading squad."

"Oh my god." Olivia followed me, leaning against the doorframe with an expression of unholy glee. “This is too perfect. Do you remember your sophomore-year manifesto— ‘overpaid athletes playing glorified games while real artists starve’?”

I winced, pulling a yogurt from the refrigerator. “I was drunk and furious. They cut the art budget to put fresh ice in the hockey rink.”

“Oh, and last semester’s masterpiece,” she continued, eyes alight. “‘Muscle-bound Neanderthals worshipped like gods while actual photographers can’t afford ramen.’”

"Are you done?"

"Not even close." She was grinning now. "I believe you also said—and I quote—'If I ever sell out to the sports industrial complex, please just shoot me and put me out of my misery.'"

I pointed my yogurt spoon at her. "That money is going to help pay our rent, so unless you want to cover my half this month..."

"Oh, I'm not judging. I'm just savoring the delicious irony." She hopped up to sit on our tiny kitchen counter. "So what's the plan? How does one prepare to photograph the sacred hockey rituals of the almighty Wolves?"

"Probably by learning something about hockey," I admitted. "I don't even know the basic rules."

"Don't look at me. The sum total of my hockey knowledge is that the stick should stay on the ice and the players should stay off the wall."

"Helpful, thanks." I pulled out my laptop. "Guess I'm doing research tonight."

"Ooh, research! My specialty!" Olivia clapped her hands together. "I'll help. First question: How many hot hockey players are there, and will you introduce me to them?"

I rolled my eyes. "Is that really your first question?"

"You're right. Too broad." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Revised question: On a scale from 'Greg from Art History' to 'That Guy from the Coffee Shop,' how hot is the team captain? The one with the brooding face from all the sports page photos."

"I have no idea, and I don't care." I opened a browser and typed "basic hockey rules" into the search bar. "I'm doing this for the money, not to ogle athletes."

"Yes, very noble," Olivia nodded solemnly, then immediately broke into a grin. "But if you happen to notice any particularly ogle-worthy specimens during your noble artistic pursuits, your best friend would appreciate that information. For journalistic purposes, of course."

"Of course." I skimmed the first search result. "Did you know there's something called 'icing' in hockey? And it has nothing to do with cake?"

"Shocking. Next you'll tell me that 'checking' isn't about making sure everyone's present."

"Actually, it's when a player uses their body to knock an opponent against the boards or to the ice."

Olivia's eyebrows shot up. "So it's just sanctioned violence on ice? Charming. Whatever happened to artistry over simply chasing a puck?"

"I'm choosing to see it as an anthropological study," I said, scrolling through hockey terminology. "Primitive tribal behavior in its natural habitat."

"Think they'll let you put that in the photo captions?"

"Ha ha." I closed the laptop. This was going to be more complicated than I'd thought. "I need to call my parents before it gets too late there."

Olivia nodded, understanding immediately. My parents were very far away, working multiple jobs to help support my education and my younger siblings' needs. Our catch-up calls were precious and carefully scheduled around their work hours.

I took my phone to my bedroom and sat cross-legged on my bed, dialing the familiar number. My mom answered on the third ring, her voice warm despite the obvious fatigue.

"Mia! We were just talking about you. Gabriel, it's Mia!" I heard shuffling as my father joined the call.

"How's our favorite photographer?" he asked, and I could hear his smile. "Captured anything amazing this week?"

I told them about my classes and recent photography projects, carefully editing out my financial stress. They had enough to worry about.

"Actually, I got a new job today," I said, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. "I'm going to be the sports photographer for the hockey team."

"Hockey! That's wonderful, honey!" My mom sounded genuinely excited. "Your father loves hockey, don't you, Gabriel?"

"It's a beautiful sport," my dad agreed. "Very fast, very dramatic. Perfect for photography."

"I don't know much about it," I admitted.

"Ah, well, some basics for sports photography," my dad offered. "You want a fast shutter speed, at least 1/500 if the lighting allows. And anticipate the action—don't photograph where the players are, but where they're going to be."

I smiled, grateful for his practical advice rather than questions about why an art photography major was suddenly shooting sports. That was my dad—always supportive, never judgmental.

"Thanks, Dad. I'll try that."

We chatted for a few more minutes before I could hear the weariness in their voices. I knew they'd both be up early for work tomorrow.

"I should let you go," I said reluctantly. "Early practice tomorrow."

"We're so proud of you, Mia," my mom said. "Send us some of your hockey photos when you take them."

"I will. Love you both."

"Love you too, mi hija," my father said. "Remember what I taught you—a good photograph tells a story."

After hanging up, I sat for a moment in the quiet of my room, missing them with a familiar ache. Then I pulled out my camera equipment, checking everything meticulously. Whatever I thought about hockey, I was going to give this job my absolute best effort. My family deserved nothing less.

I set my alarm for a painfully early hour, determined to be professional and prepared for tomorrow's practice. Entitled athletes or not, this was now my job, and I took my work seriously.

As I fell asleep, I wondered what stories I'd find on the ice tomorrow morning. What moments would my camera capture? What narratives would emerge through my lens?

Probably just overpaid jocks chasing a puck, I thought cynically. But maybe, just maybe, there might be something more.

"Remind me again why I'm up at this ungodly hour?" Olivia grumbled as we trudged toward the university's hockey arena the next morning. The sun was barely rising, casting long shadows across the empty campus.

"Because you're a supportive friend?" I suggested, adjusting my camera bag.

"Try again."

"Because you conveniently have a 'journalistic interest' in observing hockey players up close?"

She pointed a finger at me. "That's the one. My professional curiosity demands satisfaction."

The truth was, I was grateful for her company. Walking into an unfamiliar sports environment alone was intimidating, even if I wouldn't admit it.

The arena was larger than I expected, with high ceilings and surprisingly sophisticated lighting. And colder—much colder than I'd anticipated. I shivered in my light jacket, wondering if it was too late to run back to the apartment for something warmer.

"Holy thermal shock," Olivia muttered, hugging herself. "Do they keep it this cold for the ice or to weed out the weak?"

"Probably both." I surveyed the space, trying to look like I belonged there. A few players were already on the ice, warming up with casual skating and passing drills. Their movements were more fluid and precise than I'd expected, almost graceful despite the bulky equipment.

"Okay, I'm going to set up over there," I told Olivia, pointing to a spot near the rink but hopefully out of the way. "Feel free to... do whatever it is you came to do."

"Observe. Journalistically." Olivia wiggled her eyebrows. "With my eyes. My very objective, professional eyes."

I shook my head, smiling despite my nerves, and headed to my chosen position. As I set up my camera, I mentally reviewed everything I'd learned about hockey last night, which admittedly wasn't much. I adjusted my settings for the challenging lighting conditions—bright ice, dark uniforms, rapid movement.

More players filed onto the ice, their skates making distinct scratching sounds that echoed through the arena. I lifted my camera, testing different angles and focal lengths. Through my viewfinder, I noticed one player who seemed to be directing the others, pointing and demonstrating specific movements.

I zoomed in. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his movements commanding yet fluid. The "C" on his jersey marked him as the captain. As he turned, I could see the name on his back: Wright.

So this was the famous Ethan Wright—the one whose name dominated the sports section, the NHL prospect, the golden boy of the Wolves. Even I, with my limited sports knowledge, had heard of him.

I had to admit, he moved with surprising grace for someone so large. Every motion seemed deliberate, controlled, powerful. There was something compelling about the way he commanded the ice, the way the other players responded to his directions. I found myself watching him through my lens, captivated despite my bias against "entitled athletes."

Through my viewfinder, I watched him execute what even I could tell was an impressive maneuver, weaving between other players to send the puck sailing into the net. His control was remarkable, his focus absolute. I snapped several shots in rapid succession, trying to capture that intensity, that single-minded purpose.

I was so absorbed in getting the perfect shot that I didn't realize how close I'd edged to the ice until it was too late. My foot slipped onto the slick surface, and suddenly I was frantically trying to maintain balance while protecting my camera.

Everything happened in a blur—my arms pinwheeling, the captain swerving sharply to avoid me, the sickening sound of him crashing into the boards, and the collective gasp from everyone in the arena.

Oh god. I'd just caused the star player to crash during practice. On my first day.

This was not going to end well.