7

C lothes are scattered all over our room and I'm not any closer to actually choosing something to wear on my assignment. I can't find the right balance of professional, chic, and fun. Is that even what you wear for sports photojournalism? Photographing animals was so much easier. Animals didn't judge what you were wearing while you took their pictures.

It's also so much easier to plan photos and interview topics in theory. The thought of actually having to show up in front of these people, who aren't just people, they're super famous, and kind of gorgeous men, who play hockey for a living and still remember to follow the plan I wrote . . . is terrifying. I never realized how attractive these men actually are. It really isn't fair to us regular mortals that they can walk around looking like that. What if words fail me and I can't even speak? What if I pick the wrong clothes and look like a total fool and they don't even want to talk to me?

I flop, face first, onto my bed with a dramatic half sigh, half growl. I'm talking full blown Disney princess temper tantrum and scream into my pillow.

"Will you just ask me for help for once?" Zoey snickers from where she has her nose in a book, tucked comfortably into her bed. It's not that I don't want to ask for help; I just don't understand when it's okay to ask or at what point I become a nuisance.

With my face still in my pillow, I grumble, "Will you please help me? I don't know what to wear for my interview." She flies off the bed so fast that it makes me giggle. "If you wanted to help so much, why couldn't you butt in sooner?"

"You need to know you can ask for help, but it's been killing me!" she says with a wide smile on her face. "Plus, you're so pretty, I've been waiting for the chance to dress you up!"

"Oh . . ." I say with a blush spreading to my cheeks. I felt pretty to myself, but other than my parents, no one has ever directly called me pretty before, let alone so pretty . "Thanks, Zo," I mumble as she starts pinging around the room, gathering what she needs to put me together.

I'm so glad I let Zoey talk me into going shopping, so we had clothes for any occasion. My wardrobe has mostly, only ever, consisted of comfy pajamas, jeans, t-shirts, and leggings. Now, I have some mix-and-match suits, cuter casual clothes, and even some cute dressy clothes, should the need arise.

She's got things from both of our collections of clothes and accessories to put together an absolute knockout outfit. We're roughly the same size, so it's nice that we can share stuff. She's gathered my high-waisted, classic black pencil skirt, a soft-pink tank top with lace detailing across the neckline, a cropped, black blazer with giant rhinestones for buttons, and my silver pointed toe pumps. Luckily, most of the arena isn't as cold as the actual rink, so I think this will be a good balance.

How does she know me so well already? If my brain were fully functioning, this would be the exact outfit I would have chosen for myself. I'm short, like really short, so the pencil skirt hits just below my knees but hugs my curves perfectly.

Mom taught me a long time ago that women were built to have curves and never to strive for anything less than happiness and health. I had asked once if women were supposed to be as skinny as the ones you see in magazines and in the movies. I'd found I was still fuller than a lot of girls my own age if I'd see them out and about on our travels, but my mom loved me and taught me to love myself. All women are beautiful in their own way, and as long as they're happy and healthy, that's all that really matters.

After I've adorned all the items in the outfit, I add my mom's pearl necklace and my favorite moonstone ring. I stop in front of the mirror one more time to give myself the final once-over, and I'm happy with the final result. It feels like one of those movie moments where you almost don't recognize yourself. I've tied my long silver hair into a sleek, professional ballet bun. I went with a very natural make-up look and a light-pink matte lipstick.

"You could be business Barbie!" Zoey giggles as she flops back onto her bed, picking up the book she had discarded on her mission to dress me.

I'm still not sure I'm ready for this, but if I don't leave now, I won't be early, and being on time feels like being late.

How did people get anywhere before GPS apps? I think to myself as I pull into the parking lot of the giant complex that they built for the Mogadore Predators' hockey team. I researched ahead of time and was impressed by the number of things the organization and players do here for the community. They have hockey leagues for all ages, and a few of the players even pop in to help coach sometimes. Lots of ice-skating opportunities and parties just for fun!

I pull into visitor parking, dig my press badge out of my purse, and pull it over my head. My first official assignment for my photojournalism career. I snap a quick selfie before taking one more deep breath and ambling out of the car with all my things.

I especially wanted to be early so I could snap some action shots of the team practicing before it was time to do the posed pictures and interviews. I never had much of an affinity for posed shots. It takes the subject out of their normal habitat, and you lose some of the magic; another reason animals are better than people.

Smiling to myself, I push through the large glass doors of the stadium, and I am overwhelmed by the smells and sounds everywhere. I walk up to the front desk and let the receptionist know I'm here. I flash her my press badge like they do in the movies and hope I don't look as nervous as I feel. She points me to the rink where the guys are practicing today. I nod with a small thank you and push myself through yet another set of doors and try to pull myself together.

In my research, I saw lots of pictures and watched a ton of video clips of the team playing, but standing here and seeing it with my own eyes is something else entirely. They're big, burly men but they move with just as much grace and agility as dancers we saw in a Broadway musical the time my parents had a piece to do about Central Park. Instead of music and bright colors, it's the scraping of their skates on the ice, the sticks, and the puck. Colors blur together and the breeze ripping from the rink as they go by feels like I've been transported to a whole other world.

When I'm able to shake myself from the weird spell and remember why I'm here, I bring my mom's camera to my face and snap a couple of shots. One of the goalie—what was his name again, oh yeah, Rau, Slate Rau—blocking a shot from going between his legs. The way his knees hit the ice and lock together to form a wall looks painful, but it's effective.

Another shot I got, that I think will turn out great, is one of the head coach hollering at the men while they run the drills. I finish off my covert photoshoot with a team shot after practice where the head coach stands in the center of the ice, all the men kneeling, and looking up to him while he speaks, their breath coming out in harsh plumes of air in front of their faces.

The older man claps his hands and yells at the men, "Hit the showers boys and make it fast, the student journalist will be here soon, and you better be on your best behaviors!"

As the last of them men shuffle through the locker room doors and out of sight, I make myself known, "Um, hi, good afternoon. I'm from Professor Sinclair's Photojournalism class."

"Ah! Hello there young lady! The guys are going to get cleaned up. Trust me, you do not want to have to smell them right now. We can start with my interview. Let's head to my office, then I'll get you set up with the guys. We can take your little pictures after all the interviews, if that works for you," he says as he starts walking.

I nod and trail a few steps behind him as I say, "Thank you sir, this is my first assignment so I'm a little nervous."

He chuckles with his gruff old voice.

I wonder if it's naturally gruff like that or if it's from years of yelling at hockey players. I think to myself with a small giggle.

"No need for all that sir nonsense young lady, you can just call me Coach."

"Thank you, Coach. I'm Leera, Leera Adams."

My interview with Coach went well. He answered all my questions and even told me a few stories about the guys. I asked him to go about his normal routine, and I snapped some pictures of him in his office environment. He also gave me a heads up about the starting players on the team, which is who I'll be interviewing today.

The goalie, Slate Rau, and the right wing, Andrei Roko, are quiet, and no matter what I say or do, they will likely not look happy or smile, but they'll be respectful and answer all my questions.

Eris and Dolos Marzzoli are twin brothers and are the starting defensemen. They'll be the easiest to talk to, as their nature is easy-going. They can also be ornery and overwhelming at times, though, so be aware.

Benjamin "Benny" Bucur is the left wing and back-up team captain. He'll also be easy to talk to, but I assumed as much from all my research. He handles himself well in post-game interviews and seems to radiate sunshine when he smiles.

Finally, there's Roman Razboinic, the center and team captain. All the men on the team are unjustly beautiful, but this man is otherworldly. He's huge, most athletes are, but come on! He's six foot six. That means he's literally twenty inches taller than me without my heels. He has naturally sandy-blondish-brown hair, a square jaw, and his nose is a bit crooked, probably from hockey.

That's not where my eyes got stuck in my research, though. Aside from being built like a semi-truck, he has heterochromia. One green eye and one blue. I couldn't find one picture of him smiling, and yet he remains the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. Just looking at him makes my heart beat funny. I've never been physically attracted to a man, but there's definitely a strange draw to him. He's also exceptionally intimidating, so I hope I won't have to interview him alone.

"Thank you for everything, Coach. This is perfect. Do you think it would be okay if we handled this in a group interview environment? I'd like to see how they all communicate with each other and really get the team vibe," I ask.

"If you think you can handle them all at once, they're all yours." He chuckles, and he's probably right. There won't be an easy way to do this.

He taps a button on his phone and says, "Julia, please let our starting six know that the interview will begin in ten minutes in the Blizzard party room."

Smiling to myself and gathering my things, Coach comes around his desk and holds the door open for me. "Thank you," I say lightly.

He nods and walks me down the hall, up a flight of stairs, and into a party room overlooking the ice rink.

"These are usually used for birthday parties, but I thought it would be better than the locker room with all their rank-ass gym bags."

I giggle another small thank you as I begin setting my things back up.

Only a few minutes later, Benny comes into the room with that sunshine smile of his, which is also so much better in real life. I bet he gives the best hugs. That was random.

"Hello, Mr. Bucur, my name is Leera," I say as strongly as I can while extending my arm for a handshake, hoping he can't tell how nervous I am.

His large hand swallows mine as he replies, "Hello, Leera, nice to meet you. Please call me Benny. Mr. Bucur was my grandfather. In fact, go ahead and call us all by our first names. None of us answer to our last names off the ice. The rest of the guys are on their way. Andrei and the boss will be a little late, and they told us to go ahead and get started."

Nodding my head, I turn back to my resources. Roman must be the boss. As I turn back around, Slate takes a seat in the back corner of the room. "Hi Slate, I'm Leera. Thank you for making time for me today," I say in my nicest voice, hoping not to upset the hulking giant of a man.

I'm still setting up a few things when the twins stumble into the room, shoving each other through the doorway. "Coach warned me about you two. Which one of you is which? I'm sorry if that's rude, but I can't tell, and I'd rather be sure."

They give each other a look that says they're thinking those ornery thoughts Coach warned me about, but I'm saved when Benny sets one on each side of the room. "This one is Eris," he says as he sets him on the right side, "and this one is Dolos," he says as he shoves him to the left. He then sits between them, and I try to convey my thanks with a small smile.

Half an hour into the interview, everything is going great when the most curious sensation washes over me. It renders me speechless and a little lightheaded. "Are you okay?" Benny asks, immediately noticing my discomfort. It almost felt like that initial wave of anxiety when you know it's about to be a long day, but this is different. It's soft and warm, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

I hear the doorknob, and my breath hitches in my chest when Roman walks through the door. The smell of cherry and leather washes over me, calming my nerves, but I can't breathe. Not like panic-attack-can't-breathe. It's different. When I'm finally able to gulp down some oxygen, I notice the room has gone unnaturally still, just as Roman's knees hit the floor.