Chapter 13 Pickle
Chapter thirteen
Pickle
My leg wouldn't stop.
I'd been bouncing it for the last thirty kilometers—I knew because I'd started counting signs when Desrosiers threatened to duct-tape me to my seat.
"I'm going to kill you," he said, not looking up from his phone. "I'm going to kill you, and no one on this bus will testify against me."
"That's fair. I accept your terms." I started drumming my fingers on the armrest. "It's not all my fault. I'm having feelings, and I don't know what to do with them, so they're coming out through my limbs. It's a medical condition. Very serious."
"There will be a funeral."
Jake leaned over the seat in front of me, chin propped on the headrest. "You're doing the Adrian thing. Your face has been doing the Adrian thing since we crossed the border."
I opened my mouth to deny it, but couldn't say the words.
"Seven points," I said instead. "Four games. Plus-eight. Best road trip of my career. I'm allowed to have a face about that."
"Sure." Jake grinned. "That's definitely what the face is about."
Jake wasn't wrong. My brain had been running a split-screen highlight reel for the last two hundred kilometers: bar-down goal in Toledo on one side and Adrian's mouth on the other. The breakaway feed to Heath, and then Adrian's hands tugging on my hair.
Through the window, the Sleeping Giant emerged from the tree line. Almost home.
My leg bounced harder.
Someone was waiting for me who'd said I'll be here when you get back.
I'd never had that before. Someone was thinking about my arrival. Planning for it. Wanting it.
You're allowed to have this, I told myself.
The bus took the exit toward the arena. Familiar streets blurred past. Home.
The word landed differently now. Heavier. Warmer.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass and let myself feel it: the terrifying, impossible hope that maybe—just this once—a good thing wasn't about to be taken away.
The bus shuddered to a stop, and I was on my feet before the air brakes finished hissing.
"Piatkowski, the bus is still moving—"
"Technically, it's stationary, Coach, and I need to—"
"Sit down."
I sat for approximately eleven seconds. Then the doors opened, and I was third off the bus, colliding with Kowalczyk's equipment bag.
The Thunder Bay cold carried the smell of pine and diesel and something metallic off the lake. I sucked in a breath that burned on the way down.
Then I saw him.
Adrian stood near the edge of the lot, away from the cluster of cars. He wasn't filming. No camera bag on his shoulder or equipment case at his feet. It was Adrian in his dark jacket, hands in his pockets, watching the bus like waiting for me was the only thing on his schedule.
Something cracked open in my chest—not painfully, but like a window unsticking after a long winter.
He watched me see him. His mouth curved slightly. It wasn't a grin—Adrian didn't grin. Smaller than that. Private. A smile that was a secret we were keeping from everyone else.
I didn't run to him. I wanted to—God, I wanted to crash into him like a forecheck against the boards. Unfortunately, there were eighteen teammates behind me, plus Coach, and Juno's girlfriend, who'd come to pick up equipment, and whatever remained of my professional dignity.
I walked. Slowly. Like a normal human person.
Behind me, Jake made a sound like a tea kettle whistling.
Hog's voice drifted over: "Wow, my phone is so interesting right now. Look at this phone."
Coach's silence was the loudest thing in the lot. He would remember everything for a future conversation, which I would definitely not enjoy.
I ignored them all and stopped about two feet from Adrian. Close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes. I smelled his soap—that scent I didn't want to wash out of my sheets.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey." His voice was low. Quiet enough that only I could hear. "Good trip?"
"Seven points. Plus-eight. Career best." I shoved my hands in my pockets, mirroring his posture. "You might have heard. I texted you approximately nine hundred times about it."
"I think I heard about it somewhere." That small smile again. "You also sent me a picture of a vending machine at 2 a.m. with no context."
"It had a threatening aura. I needed to document it for the historical record."
Adrian laughed—quiet, just a huff of breath that fogged between us.
This is mine, I thought.
The possessiveness was new. I didn't do mine. I did chaos and deflection, and I made sure everyone knew I wasn't taking anything too seriously, because if I didn't take things seriously, it hurt less when they got taken away.
Whatever this is—I'm keeping it.
I searched for something to say. "You didn't have to come to the lot. You could have just—I would have found you later."
Something flickered behind his eyes—there and gone before I could name it.
"I wanted to see you. I didn't want to wait."
My pulse pounded in my ears.
"Your place?" Adrian asked.
"My place."
He nodded. Still watching me with those steady eyes.
My apartment greeted us with its usual energy: aggressive disorder.
"Home sweet home," I announced, checking the door open with my hip. "Ignore everything. I cleaned before I left, but the apartment resists. It un-cleans itself."
I dropped my bag in the hallway and wrestled out of my jacket.
"So the trip—did I tell you about Desrosiers' sock thing? He has to put the left one on first, or he thinks we'll lose. I'm a convert now. I'm considering starting a religion."
I opened the fridge. Half a jar of pickles and something in a container that might have been food at some point. Three energy drinks sat on the top shelf. I grabbed two cans and turned around.
Adrian stood in the middle of my living room. He hadn't taken off his jacket and held his phone in his left hand. He'd checked it twice since we walked in.
"You want a drink?" I held up the cans.
"I'm okay," he said.
I set the cans on the counter. Slowly.
Here's the thing about being the chaos guy: people assume I don't notice things. They think the noise gets in the way.
I'd learned to read rooms before I learned to read plays. When you grow up being too much, you figure out fast how to clock the moment you've worn out your welcome. The slight squint. The half-second delay before they laugh. How their bodies angle toward the door.
Adrian wasn't angling toward the door, but he didn't relax either. He stood in my apartment like he wasn't sure the floor would hold him, bracing for something.
"Okay," I said. "You're doing a weird thing."
"What?"
"A weird thing." I leaned against the counter, keeping my voice light even as something cold started to grow in my stomach. "I have a PhD in weird things, and that—" I gestured at him, the tight shoulders and the phone-checking. "That definitely qualifies."
He exhaled. "I'm just tired. Long few days."
"Uh-huh."
"It's nothing you need to worry about."
The words were trying to reassure me. I crossed the room toward him. Slow, giving him space to step back.
"Adrian." I stopped in front of him. "I'm loud and chaotic, and I once got my hand stuck in a Pringles can for forty-five minutes because I refused to admit defeat, but I'm not stupid."
"I never said—"
"Something's going on. You don't have to tell me right now if you're not ready, but don't stand in my apartment looking like you're waiting for a bomb to go off while you tell me it's nothing."
His breath caught. Just enough to notice.
His phone buzzed. He didn't look at it.
"There are some things happening with the documentary," he said, carefully choosing his words. "The network has certain expectations."
I waited.
"I've been pushing back. Looking for alternatives." He swallowed. "I'm handling it."
"What kind of expectations?"
"They want a certain angle. Chaos. Comedy. The relatable disaster approach." He clenched his jaw. "I don't agree with it. I've been trying to give them something different. Something that shows who you actually are."
"So they want me to be a punchline," I said. Not a question.
Adrian's silence was answer enough.
I thought about Marcus Delacroix. Fourth grade.
The kid who'd said he'd share his fruit snacks and then ate them all in front of me while his friends laughed.
I thought about every scout who'd written talented but inconsistent, and every coach who'd called me good energy when they meant too much to build around.
Adrian's company wanted me to be a punchline.
It didn't surprise me.
"Is there more?" I asked.
"I'm handling it," he said again. "I'm in contact with people who might offer a different path." He reached out, fingers brushing my wrist. "I need you to trust that I'm on your side."
I looked at him. I wanted to push. The question was right there—what aren't you telling me—pressing against my tongue.
Before I could ask, I thought about the fact that Adrian was with me. He'd come to the parking lot without his camera, and now he was standing in my messy apartment, looking at me like I was worth waiting for.
Maybe that was enough. For now.
"Okay," I said.
Adrian blinked. "Okay?"
"I believe you're on my side, and I trust that you'll tell me the rest when you're ready." I stepped closer. "Still, if there's more—and I think there's more—don't wait too long. I can handle complicated. I can't handle finding out you didn't think I could."
"I know you can handle it," he said. "I just need a little more time."
"Okay," I said, and this time I smiled. "Stop looking like you're about to make a break for it."
Adrian laughed—a real one.
I moved closer. "Hey. I missed you."
Adrian's armored expression cracked. "I missed you, too. More than I expected."
"That's very emotionally available of you. Gold star." I reached up and touched his jaw. "Now kiss me like you're glad I'm home."
I watched him set down whatever he'd been carrying—the tension and the things he wasn't telling me—and decide that right now, I was more important than the weight of everything else.