Page 14 of Boards & Betrayal

As I adjusted my camera settings, I saw Kara weaving her way through the crowd; her face lighting up when she spotted me. Next to her was the assistant coach, Saint—though everyone called him by his nickname, not his real name, which I never bothered to remember. He looked every bit the part of a tough guy, with a rugged face that seemed to have seen more battles than hockey games. His dark hair was cropped close, and his intense eyes scanned the room with a mixture of wariness and focus. The resemblance to some brooding vigilante was uncanny, right down to the muscular build and the perpetual scowl.

Kara reached me first, pulling me into a hug that felt warm but brief. "Ally! Thank you so much for doing this," she said, her voice full of gratitude.

I tried to smile, but it felt strained. "Of course."

She stepped back but kept her hands on my shoulders, studying my face as if trying to read my thoughts. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine," I lied, glancing over at Saint, who stood silently beside us, his presence both comforting and intimidating.

Kara followed my gaze and rolled her eyes slightly. "Ignore him. He's just here for the free food."

Saint’s lips twitched in what might have been an attempt at a smile. "Don't let me interrupt your girl talk."

Kara shook her head and turned back to me. "Seriously though, how are you?"

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "It's just another gig, right? I'll be fine."

"You're stronger than you give yourself credit for," she said softly, squeezing my shoulders before letting go. "And you look gorgeous."

Before I could respond, the lights began to dim. The chatter in the room softened as everyone turned their attention toward the stage.

"Looks like it's starting," she whispered.

I nodded and Kara gave me one last encouraging smile before heading back to her seat with Saint in tow. I took a deep breath and focused on my camera once more, hoping that through the lens I could keep some distance from the emotions threatening to spill over.

The lights dimmed further, casting a spotlight on the stage as a man stepped up to the podium. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commanding the room's attention immediately. His suit was impeccably tailored, accentuating his athletic build. I recognized him from sports magazines—Coach Warren DeVries, a legend in college hockey. His silver hair and neatly trimmed beard gave him a distinguished air, but it washis eyes that held the crowd. They were sharp, assessing, yet twinkled with an undeniable charisma.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice resonating through the hall, "it's an honor to be here tonight among such talented athletes and dedicated coaches."

He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the room. I lifted my camera and snapped a few shots, capturing his confident stance and the attentive audience.

"We gather tonight not just to celebrate individual achievements," he continued, "but to honor the spirit of perseverance and teamwork that defines college sports. Each one of you has faced challenges—both on and off the ice—and yet you’ve pushed through. That’s what makes tonight special."

There were nods of agreement and murmurs of appreciation from the crowd. I framed another shot, focusing on Coach DeVries' expressive face as he spoke.

"Remember," he said, his tone growing more impassioned, "it’s not just about the wins and losses. It’s about the journey—the sweat, the sacrifices, the moments when you thought you couldn’t go on but did, anyway. That’s what we celebrate tonight."

I captured the intensity in his eyes as he delivered those words. The energy in the room shifted; it was palpable—a collective sense of pride and determination.

"So let's make tonight memorable," he concluded with a wide smile that seemed to brighten even the darkest corners of the hall. "Let’s honor our champions, our coaches, and everyone who makes this community what it is."

Applause erupted as Coach DeVries stepped back from the podium. I took another shot of him acknowledging the crowd’s admiration with a humble nod before moving aside for the next part of the ceremony.

I lowered my camera slightly, feeling a mix of emotions wash over me—pride for being part of this world, but also that familiar ache of loss. I forced myself to focus on my work again, capturing candid moments as people turned their attention back to their tables and whispered among themselves.

This was just another gig, I reminded myself. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t that simple.

The awards ceremony began with a burst of applause as Coach DeVries left the stage. My heart pounded in my chest, but I forced myself to focus on the task at hand. The room buzzed with anticipation, the energy almost tangible.

I moved through the crowd, capturing moments—the laughter, the camaraderie, the pride on every face. My camera clicked steadily, each shot a tiny fragment of the evening's story.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, “the Rookie of the Year award goes to Crestwood’s very own Levi Kennedy!”

The room erupted in applause and cheers. I quickly turned my lens towards the stage, zooming in on Levi as he stood to accept his award. He was tall and lean, with dark hair that fell neatly around his sharp features. His expression was stoic despite the honor of the award before turning to his date. He leaned down and kissed her cheek gently, a tender moment that seemed almost out of place in such a formal setting. I snapped a few shots, capturing their shared smile.

His date was Minka Mathers—blonde hair cascading down her shoulders in soft waves, her eyes bright and intelligent. She was poised, elegant even in her understated dress. The future owner of the Detroit Serpents, she held an air of quiet confidence that commanded respect.

As Levi reached the podium, he adjusted the microphone slightly. "Thank you," he began, his voice steady despite thenerves that must have been coursing through him. "This is an incredible honor."

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