Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Pickle
The pillow smelled wrong.
Not wrong-wrong. Not bad. Just not mine. There was soap in it—something clean and adult, like a hotel lobby or a man who owned more than one towel.
Adrian's soap.
I lay there for approximately ninety seconds, face pressed into the fabric, breathing him in.
Last night happened. Last night actually happened.
I rolled onto my back. Stared at the ceiling. There was a water stain up there shaped like a duck.
The other side of the bed was empty. Cold-empty. He'd left hours ago.
I grabbed my phone. One notification.
Adrian: Had to head out early for some morning shots. Didn't want to wake you. Last night was...
Three dots. Then nothing. He'd deleted whatever came next and sent it unfinished.
I stared at the dots. Last night was what, Adrian? Good? A mistake? Fine, but let's never speak of it if you've realized I'm an actual disaster person who keeps a haunted chair.
I typed: cool sex last night lol
Stared at it in horror, then deleted it so fast I nearly cracked my screen.
When I glanced in the mirror on my way to the bathroom, I looked exactly the same. Same messy hair. Same sharp cheekbones.
No visible transformation. No glowing sign that said THIS PERSON HAS BEEN SEEN AND DIDN'T SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST.
My phone buzzed.
Jake: Breakfast at The Drop? Evan's buying.
Not Adrian. Of course not Adrian. He was being a professional adult with a job, boundaries, and a plan for his day.
I typed back:
Pickle: yeah be there in 20
When I arrived, Jake was waiting outside The Drop, arms crossed, breath fogging in the cold.
"You walked past the door," he said.
I looked behind me. The entrance was ten feet back.
"Testing your reflexes. Team building exercise."
His eyes narrowed. "You've got a look."
"Of course, I have a look. If I didn't, I'd be invisible."
"No, your energy is different. It's giving..." He trailed off, searching for the word.
"I'm a morning person. It's my healthy sleep schedule."
"It's giving I had sex and don't know how to act about it vibes."
I choked. "What—that's not—"
"Oh my God." He grinned. "I was fishing. I didn't actually think—"
"You're wrong."
"Your voice just cracked."
He grabbed my arm and dragged me inside.
The warmth of The Drop hit me like a blanket—one stained with beer and smelling of deep fryer oil. Evan was in the corner booth, nursing coffee.
Jake deposited me across from him and slid in beside me, blocking my escape.
"Pickle had sex," Jake announced.
Evan blinked. "Good morning to you, too."
"I didn't—"
"He walked past the door. He's doing a thing with his face. And his voice cracked when I accused him."
I put my head in my hands. "I'm fine. Nothing's wrong. I'm completely normal and having a completely normal morning after a completely normal night of—"
I stopped.
They both stared at me.
"Sleep," I finished weakly. "Like a person."
Jake turned to Evan. "He's broken."
"He's processing," Evan said. "Give him time."
"Processing what? The fact that he finally got some, or the fact that it was with a guy who's leaving in—" Jake stopped. His expression softened. "Hey. Pickle. Are you okay?"
"I think so," I said. "I just... I don't know how to do this. The morning after part. The what are we part."
Jake gripped my shoulder.
"Nobody's good at this," he said. "You think I knew what I was doing when Evan and I started? It was catastrophic."
"You're still a catastrophe," Evan said.
"But a lovable one." Jake smiled. "You don't have to have it figured out. Just sort out the next step. One thing at a time."
One thing at a time. I could do that. Maybe.
When we reached the arena, I spent forty-five minutes before practice retaping my stick. It didn't need retaping. The tape was fine. I'd done it two days ago—clean edges, good grip.
I ripped it off and did it again anyway. Then again.
"You're going to run out of tape."
Hog's voice made me jump. He stood in the doorway, watching me with the steady expression that always made me feel like he could see directly into my central nervous system.
"I'm not running out of tape. I have six rolls."
"You've used three in the last half hour."
I looked down. The garbage can next to my stall was overflowing with discarded tape strips.
Hog set down his bag and lowered himself onto the bench across from me.
"You okay?"
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"Because you're acting like a squirrel that found cocaine in the bird feeder."
"That's—" I paused.
He didn't say anything. Just sat there, massive and patient, waiting me out.
I looked into his eyes. "Can I ask you something? When you and Rhett first... was it weird? After? Did you know what to do the next day?"
Hog nodded. "Ah."
"What do you mean, ah?"
"Nothing. Just—ah." He leaned back, stretching his legs out. "Yeah, it was kind of odd. First time Rhett stayed over, I woke up at 4 a.m. and organized my entire yarn collection by weight and fiber content. Didn't sleep again. Just... sorted yarn. For three hours."
I stared at him. "Really?"
"Couldn't figure out what to do with my hands. Couldn't figure out what to say when he woke up. So I alphabetized my merino."
There was something deeply comforting about the image of Hog—massive, terrifying Hog—stress-sorting yarn at 4 a.m. because his feelings were too complicated.
"What did Rhett do when he woke up?"
"Made coffee. Kissed me." Hog shrugged. "The confusion passes. You just have to survive it."
"What if it doesn't pass?"
"Then you figure out how to be complicated together." He stood, grabbing his bag. "Whoever it is, they saw you. They stayed. That means something. Don't let your brain convince you otherwise."
They saw you. They stayed.
I thought about the three dots. About how Adrian had held me last night like I was something worth holding. About how he hadn't laughed when I talked too much, and he didn't flinch when I fell apart.
He'd just been there. Present. Interested.
The locker room door banged open. Desrosiers and Kowalczyk tumbled in, already mid-argument. I grabbed my tape and started wrapping again.
The ice helped.
The cold hit my face, and some of the static in my head calmed. This I knew. This I could do. The scrape of blades, the echo of the rink, and the smell of cold air and rubber—it was home turf.
I pushed off and let my body remember what it was for.
I felt Adrian before I saw him.
He was setting up near the boards, adjusting a lens with those long, careful fingers. He hadn't looked at me yet. Or if he had, he'd done it while I wasn't watching.
The drill ended. Coach called a water break. Adrian lifted his head. Our eyes met across the ice.
He smiled. Not a big smile. Not a hey, remember when we had sex smile. Warmth and recognition.
My face flushed despite the cold. He tilted his head toward the tunnel. A question.
I glanced around. Coach was talking to the goalies. Jake was harassing Evan about something. Nobody was paying attention to me.
I skated toward the boards. Adrian met me at the edge of the ice, leaning against the barrier. Up close, I saw the faint shadows under his eyes. He hadn't slept much either.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
"Good practice?"
"Yeah. Fine. Normal." I gripped my stick like it might escape. "You?"
"Got some good shots this morning." He stopped and didn't say anything for a minute. "I have news. I called Naomi. Got another two-day extension."
The words took a second to process. "You're staying?"
"Two more days. Maybe more, if the footage justifies it." He looked into my eyes. "I wanted you to know. Before I told anyone else."
Before I told anyone else.
His hand moved—not quite touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of it near my forearm where it rested on the boards.
"I'm not going to make this a big production," he said, voice low enough that only I could hear. "I know you've got practice. I know there are people watching. I just—" He exhaled. "I wanted you to know I'm not running. Okay?"
I'm not running.
Three words. Simple. They landed like stones dropped into still water.
"Okay," I said. My voice was rough and halting.
His fingers brushed the back of my glove—barely a touch, gone before anyone could notice—and then he stepped back.
"Good luck with practice. I'll be around."
He walked toward his equipment, and I stood there with my heart flip-flopping like a hooked catfish lying on the dock.
Coach's whistle blew. I pushed back onto the ice.
After practice, the locker room emptied in waves. Jake threw me a look that said we're not done talking about this, while Evan steered him toward the door. Hog paused just long enough to squeeze my shoulder.
Heath lingered. He was at his stall, folding and refolding the same shirt like he was waiting for something.
"You don't have to babysit me," I said.
He looked up. "I wasn't—the shirt has a weird crease."
"That shirt has been creased since you bought it. It's a characteristic, not a flaw."
Heath looked at the fabric in his hands. Then back at me.
"You helped me yesterday. After the hit. What you said—it helped. So if you're going through something, I wanted you to know I'm here."
The offer was clumsy and sincere.
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
Heath nodded. Started to turn away.
"Actually, I don't know if I'm fine. I think something is happening, and I don't know what to do about it, and my brain keeps trying to convince me it's going to fall apart before it even starts."
Heath turned back. "What kind of something?"
"The kind where someone sees you. And is into you. And doesn't run." I swallowed. "And you don't know what to do with that because you've spent your whole life assuming the seeing would be the part that made them leave."
Heath was quiet for a moment. "That sounds terrifying," he said finally.
"It is."
"But also maybe good?"
"Maybe. I don't know yet."
He nodded like I'd said something perfectly reasonable.
"For what it's worth," he said, "you're the first person on this team who made me feel like I belonged here. Maybe someone's doing that for you now."
He grabbed his bag and headed for the door.
When I returned home, my apartment was the same epic mess I'd left behind. Snack wrappers on the coffee table. Laundry pile by the bedroom door. The haunted chair in the corner, silently judging me.
But it smelled different now. Adrian's soap. Faint, but there.
I pulled out my phone.
Adrian's text was still there. Last night was...
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
The instinct to make a joke was strong. Send something breezy. I was so good at deflecting with humor.
Still, Adrian hadn't laughed at me last night. He'd listened and touched me like I was worth touching.
I'm not running, he'd said at the arena.
Maybe I could not run, too.
I sent a message:
Pickle: hey. I liked waking up after.
Three dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
My phone buzzed.
Adrian: Me too. Even the part where I had to step over your haunted chair.
A laugh erupted out of me—surprised, relieved, and too loud for the empty apartment.
Another message:
Adrian: Want to get dinner tonight? Somewhere that isn't The Drop. I want to hear about your day without Jake interrogating you.
He wanted to see me. On purpose. In public.
Pickle: yes. but I'm picking the place. there's a Thai restaurant that has questionable hygiene standards and incredible Pad Thai.
Adrian: Sold. 7?
Pickle: 7
I didn't know where this was going, how long it would last, or what would happen when Adrian's extension ran out, and he had to go back to Chicago. I grabbed my phone again.
Pickle: hey Juno. something happened. I'm not ready to talk about it yet but I wanted you to know it's not nothing.
Her reply came fast.
Juno: I know.
Of course she did.
I set the phone down and went to find something to wear.
I had a date tonight. With someone who wanted to know about my day.
Some things were worth being nervous about.