Chapter 10 Adrian #2
He disappeared inside. I stood on the sidewalk until the light came on in his third-floor window, and then a few seconds longer, breathing cold air and trying to remember what my life had been before a twenty-three-year-old in orange Crocs made it tilt sideways.
I walked back to my hotel with my hands in my pockets and the taste of him still on my lips.
***
My phone woke me at 6:41 a.m.
Not the alarm—I’d set that for seven. The phone itself was buzzing insistently.
I fumbled for it without opening my eyes. Opening one, I squinted against the screen’s glow.
Naomi (6:41 a.m.): Call me when you’re up.
Naomi (6:43 a.m.): Actually, call me now. I know you’re awake. You sleep like a vampire—light and paranoid.
Naomi (6:45 a.m.): The network loved the bar footage. Pickle’s testing through the roof.
Naomi (6:47 a.m.): We need to talk about direction.
Four texts in six minutes. That was urgent, even for Naomi.
I called her back. She picked up on the first ring. “You’re still in Thunder Bay.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“It’s not morning here. It’s still ass-early. I’ve been up since four because the network scheduled a call, and they don’t understand that some of us have circadian rhythms.” I heard her sip something—coffee, probably. “Tell me you have more footage.”
“I have more footage.”
“Usable footage. Not B-roll of the lake and artsy shots of hockey sticks.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “I’ve been shooting team dynamics. Player interviews. The boyfriend angle is developing. Hog is fascinating.”
“The boyfriend angle is fine. The network likes the boyfriend. But what they really like—” Papers shuffled.
“What they really like is the other one. Pickle. He’s testing extremely well.
Focus groups loved the bar clips. The Zamboni thing.
The part where he crawled under a table to fix a chair leg—they played that three times. ”
“He didn’t know I was—”
“That’s what makes it work. It’s authentic. Raw. Relatable chaos.” More paper shuffling. “The word they used was meme-able. Multiple times.”
I crossed to the window. Outside, Thunder Bay was gray and cold, morning light faintly glowing at the horizon. The Sleeping Giant was barely visible through low-hanging clouds.
“What are you asking me to do, Naomi?”
“I’m not asking anything. I’m relaying feedback.” Her voice shifted—still friendly, but with an edge.
“They want more of him. More wipeouts, more fixations, more… Pickle being Pickle.”
“I can’t manufacture that. He’s not a character. He’s a person.”
“He’s also your hook. You know how this works, Adrian.”
I did know.
“I need more time,” I said.
“You’ve already had an extension.”
“I need another one. A few more days. I’m earning their trust—the whole team’s trust. The footage will be better if they stop seeing me as an outsider with a camera.”
Silence. I pictured Naomi at her desk, weighing options, calculating costs.
“How many days?”
“Three. Maybe four.”
“The budget—”
“I’ll cover the difference. Again.”
A sigh. “Fine. But Adrian—send me more footage today. Personality stuff. Give them something to chew on.”
She hung up. I stood at the window, watching the clouds shift over the Giant, and tried to figure out what footage I could send that wouldn’t make me hate myself.
There was a morning practice today. Coach’s sixth sense would know Pickle was out late with me.
When I arrived at the arena, most of the team was already on the ice. I positioned myself near the boards with my camera ready, trying to focus on the work instead of Naomi’s voice in my head. Meme-able. Multiple times.
The team moved through warm-ups with their usual chaos—Jake chirping Evan about something, and Desrosiers swearing at his stick tape in Quebecois French. Normal. Familiar.
I didn’t focus on them.
I watched Pickle and Heath.
They’d paired off near the far boards, running through a positioning drill. Heath kept overcorrecting—shifting too far left, then overcompensating right, his body fighting itself.
I zoomed in.
Pickle was saying something, gesturing with his stick. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could read his posture—relaxed, patient.
Heath tried the drill again. Failed again. His stick slammed against the ice.
Pickle didn’t flinch. He skated closer, dropping his voice. Whatever he said made Heath pause mid-spiral. I watched the rookie’s shoulders loosen by degrees—not all the way, but enough.
They ran the drill again.
This time, Heath’s feet moved the way they were supposed to. Not perfect, but better. Pickle slammed his stick against the boards in celebration, then immediately checked himself, toning it down. It was apparent that he didn’t want to spook the kid.
I captured all of it. The patience. The adjustment. It was footage of a moment that mattered.
After practice, I sent Naomi a two-minute clip: Pickle anticipating a pass. It shouldn’t have been possible, but he redirected the puck mid-stride and fed Heath for a shot that landed in the net. Skill and mentorship.
Naomi’s response came twenty minutes later.
Naomi: The network reviewed. I’m quoting. This is a sports doc, not a highlight reel. We need personality. Quirk. Relatability. More of the funny stuff.
I stared at the messages until the screen dimmed.
They didn’t want the player who read the ice two moves ahead, or the teammate who noticed someone drowning and threw them a line.
They wanted the meme. Not the man I kissed last night.
That afternoon, I retreated to The Common Thread, claiming a corner table—laptop open, coffee cooling. Naomi’s messages burned a hole in my pocket. I stared at a folder of footage, trying to figure out how to give the network something.
“You’re still here.”
I looked up. Hog stood over me like a flannel-wrapped mountain. He held a to-go cup in one massive hand—something with whipped cream and caramel drizzle. His expression was unreadable.
“Extended assignment,” I said.
“How extended?”
“A few more days.”
He studied me for a moment. Then, without asking, he sat down. The chair creaked under his weight. He took a sip of his drink. Whipped cream caught in his beard.
“Pickle told me about dinner,” he said.
I kept my voice neutral. “Did he?”
“He tells me most things. The big stuff.” Another sip. “He was happy this morning. Distracted. Dropped a few passes. Smiled every time.”
I wasn’t sure if it was an accusation or an observation.
“That’s… good,” I said carefully.
“Is it?”
Hog stared at me, and his eyes didn’t waver.
“I’m going to ask you something,” he said. “And I’d appreciate a straight answer. Not a documentary answer. The truth.”
I closed my laptop. “Okay.”
“What’s this documentary actually about?”
I opened my mouth to respond. Nothing came out.
Hog saw it—the hesitation. His jaw tightened.
“That’s what I thought,” he said.
“It’s not—” I started. Stopped. Found my footing. “The network has certain expectations. I don’t agree with all of them.”
“What kind of expectations?”
“They want entertainment. Clips that go viral. They want—”
“They want Pickle to be a joke.”
“That’s not what I want. I’ve been fighting them on the angle since I got here. Every piece of footage I send that shows him as a real player gets rejected. Every time I try to—”
“But you keep sending footage.”
“If I don’t, they’ll replace me with someone who will. Someone who doesn’t—” I stopped myself.
Hog leaned forward. “Someone who doesn’t what?”
Someone who doesn’t care about him. I didn’t say it out loud.
“Someone who won’t push back,” I said instead. “Someone who’ll give them what they want without asking questions.”
Hog was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was different—heavier and more personal.
“Let me tell you something about Pickle. He showed up in Thunder Bay two years ago, and he was a mess. Talented, yeah. Fast as hell. But he was so scared of being sent back down that he couldn’t sleep.
He’d come to practice with his hands shaking because his brain had convinced him that every shift was an audition. ”
I thought about the footage. Pickle by the boards, rubbing his chest. The Zamboni blade. The napkin holders.
“It took a year for him to believe he belonged here,” Hog continued. “A full year of Jake and Evan and me telling him he wasn’t going anywhere. It’s not all gone—he still waits for the other shoe.”
The coffee shop hummed around us. Someone’s laughter drifted from the counter.
“He lets people in,” Hog said. “He can’t help it. He gives everything—every joke and every piece of himself—hoping they’ll stay.” His eyes held mine without blinking. “And when they don’t… it breaks something in him. Every time.”
“What do you want me to do?” Frustration cracked my voice. “Walk away? Let someone else take over? I can do that. I can tell Naomi I’m done, and by next week there’ll be a new camera in this town, pointed at him, held by someone who doesn’t give a damn about anything except getting the shot.”
Hog didn’t flinch. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s reality. The footage exists. The network wants what it wants. The only question is who shapes the final product.” I breathed out. “I’m trying to protect him. That’s the truth. I don’t know if I can, but I’m trying.”
Silence stretched between us—heavy, but not hostile.
Finally, Hog stood.
“Figure out whose side you’re on,” he said. “Before someone gets hurt.”
“I know whose side I’m on.”
“Do you?” He picked up his drink. The whipped cream had melted into the coffee, a swirl of white dissolving into brown. “Give us proof.” He walked out.
My phone buzzed at 8:47 p.m.
Pickle: hey. just got home from practice. hog was weird at me all afternoon. wouldn’t say why. you know anything about that?
I was still at the coffee shop. The barista had refilled my cup three times without being asked, and the dinner crowd had come and gone around me. I hadn’t moved.
Adrian: He’s just protective. It’s a good thing.
Not a lie, but not the entire truth.
Pickle: yeah he’s like that. once he decides you’re his, he’s basically a giant knitted attack dog. anyway. last night was good. in case I forgot to say that. actually I know I said it. I’m just saying it again. okay shutting up now. goodnight adrian.
I looked at his name on my screen.
Figure out whose side you’re on.
Adrian: Can I call you?
Three dots appeared immediately.
Pickle: yeah of course
I pushed my cold coffee aside and hit the call button. He picked up on the first ring. “Hey. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I—” I paused. “I wanted to hear your voice.”
Pickle’s voice softened. “You’re kind of romantic when you want to be. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Not recently.”
“Well, you are. It’s very confusing. You have this whole brooding mysterious thing going on, and then you say stuff like I wanted to hear your voice, and my brain short-circuits.”
I smiled. “Is that a complaint?”
“It’s an observation. I’m a scientist, remember? Galileo of restaurant surveillance.”
“I remember.”
The line was quiet for a moment. Not awkward—comfortable. I listened to Pickle breathing.
“Hog really was weird today. He kept looking at me during drills like he was waiting for something to happen. And then after practice, he asked if I was being careful. Which—what does that even mean? Careful about what? My crossovers? My diet? My—” He stopped. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“He meant you.”
I didn’t say anything.
“He thinks you’re going to hurt me.” Pickle’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Is he right?”
I thought about the footage. The network. The edit notes waiting in my inbox. More of the funny stuff. Meme-able.
“I don’t want to,” I said. “That’s the truth.”
“But?”
“But I’m not—” I closed my eyes but kept talking. “There are things about this project I can’t control. Things I’m trying to fix. And I don’t know if I can.”
Silence on the other end.
“Pickle—”
“It’s okay.” His voice was quiet but steady. “I knew this would be complicated. You’ve got a job. I’ve got—whatever this is. It was always going to be messy.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“Maybe not, but it makes it real.” A pause. “Are you trying? To fix the things you can’t control?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a good thing. For now.”
I wanted to tell him everything—the network’s demands, Hog’s warning, and the impossible choice that was coming. I couldn’t. Not yet. Not until I’d figured out how to protect him from what I’d already done.
“I should let you sleep,” I said.
“Yeah. Game day tomorrow. Coach’s creepy sixth sense, et cetera.” A beat. “Adrian?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you called.”
“Me too.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Pickle.”
The line went dead. I sat in the empty coffee shop, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to nothing.
Give us proof.
I opened my laptop. Stared at the folder of footage—hours of it, days of it, and I opened a new email.
Naomi, we need to talk about the edit. I have concerns about the direction, and I’m not sending more footage until we address them. Call me tomorrow.
My finger hovered over the send button.
It was a line I couldn’t uncross. Once I officially pushed back—in writing, on the record—everything would change.
I thought about Pickle’s voice on the phone. Are you trying?
I hit send.
Then I closed my laptop, left money on the table, and walked out into the Thunder Bay cold.