Chapter 18 Adrian
Chapter eighteen
Adrian
The loading dock door swung shut with a clang that echoed off concrete, and I stood there holding my phone.
Please don't walk too far.
Five words. Not an apology. Not an explanation. A request dressed up as a sentence, asking for something I hadn't earned.
I'd watched Pickle push through that door.
Watched him disappear into the Thunder Bay cold with his shoulders hunched and his game-day shirt still damp.
He'd walked away from me the way I'd seen him walk away from bad hits on the ice—controlled, deliberate, refusing to let anyone see how much it hurt.
Except he'd stopped.
I knew because I'd pressed my face to the narrow window beside the door. The parking lot stretched out under orange streetlights, half-empty, slick with black ice. And there, at the far edge near a beat-up pickup truck—there was Pickle.
Leaning against the tailgate. Arms crossed. Watching the door.
Waiting.
He could have kept walking. Could have called Jake, or Hog, or anyone else who would have driven him home and helped him build righteous anger that made moving on easier.
He could have blocked my number. Could have decided—reasonably, justifiably—that I wasn't worth the effort of standing in the cold.
Instead, he stood there.
I thought about his mouth. I remembered how it tasted at 3 a.m. when he was half-asleep, reaching for me. I couldn't forget the soft whimper he made when I pulled him closer—surprise and relief tangled together.
I wanted him here. Right now. I wanted to cross that parking lot and press him against the rusted tailgate and kiss him until neither of us remembered why we were fighting.
That wasn't what he needed.
The window fogged where my breath hit it. I wiped it clear with my sleeve.
Pickle's posture didn't change. He wasn't pacing or looking at his phone. He stood there, waiting.
The stakes crystallized with brutal clarity.
My text had bought me time. Nothing more.
Pickle was waiting to see if I'd use it to come out there with the truth—or if I'd hide behind the request the way I'd hidden behind trust me and I'm handling it and every other phrase I'd used to keep him at arm's length while pretending I was holding him close.
I reached for the door handle. Cold, industrial steel.
I pictured how it would go.
After pushing through the door, I'd cross the parking lot with my breath turning into misty clouds. Pickle would watch me coming. I'd stop in front of him, and I'd say—
What?
I'm sorry. I should have told you. I was trying to protect you.
He'd heard that already. In the storage alcove, with the fluorescent buzzing overhead, I'd said those words. They'd landed without changing anything.
Trust me. I'm working on it. Just give me more time.
More time. I kept asking for time. Kept promising that if he'd wait a little longer, I'd have answers. I'd have solutions. I'd have something better than the mess I'd made.
Time wasn't what Pickle needed from me.
He needed proof. He needed to know that when I said I was on his side, I meant it in ways that cost me something.
If I went out there now, I'd ask him to wait again.
Going to him with nothing but apologies and promises would repeat my pattern.
It would be the same mistake I'd made with Theo.
I'd held Theo at arm's length by keeping my fears to myself and deciding what he could handle.
I loved him carefully, not honestly. When it fell apart, I'd told myself the lesson was about trust.
It wasn't. The lesson was about action.
Standing with my hand on the door handle, preparing to cross the parking lot and say all the right words didn't matter if I didn't back them with something real.
Pickle had stopped walking. He was giving me exactly what I'd asked for: a chance.
If I wasted that chance on another round of trust me, I deserved to lose him.
I pulled my hand back.
If I want him to trust me, I have to earn it before I ask for it.
I set off down a corridor. Pickle was out there, waiting. And I was in the arena, walking away from him—not to escape, but to act.
I found an empty office near the media room. I sat in the dark at an empty desk and pulled out my phone.
Lenny Roth answered on the first ring. "Talk to me."
"The network's accelerating. I need the indie option to move faster."
"Adrian." A pause. Papers shuffling. "Even if I could mobilize tomorrow, we're looking at weeks. Legal clearances alone—"
"I don't have weeks. I might not have days."
"Then you need to slow them down. Buy time on their end." His voice sharpened. "You have the emails, right? The pressure tactics?"
"All of it."
"Then you have leverage. The question is whether you're willing to use it."
I thought about Pickle standing in that parking lot.
"I'm willing."
"Good. Call me when you know what kind of war you're fighting."
The line went dead.
I called Sarah Vance next. She listened for three minutes, then said, "The footage belongs to them. Legally, you're fucked. But if you can make releasing it more expensive than burying it—" A pause. "That's your only play. Make them scared of you."
Two more calls. One voicemail. One polite rejection.
By eleven, I'd exhausted my immediate options.
I crossed back to the loading dock and pressed my face to the window again.
The parking lot was nearly empty.
The pickup truck was still there, slowly rusting, but the space beside it where Pickle had been standing was vacant. No figure. No crossed arms. No one waiting.
He'd gone home.
I didn't know when. Didn't know if he'd waited an hour or three, and whether he'd finally given up or just gotten too cold.
That was what love looked like from the wrong side of the glass. Someone standing in the cold for you, while you're not there to see when they stop.
I pictured Pickle walking the twelve blocks to his apartment—shoulders hunched, hands shoved in his pockets, that game-day shirt freezing against his skin.
I should have brought him a jacket. That was the absurd thought that surfaced. I'd spent two weeks falling for him, and I'd let him walk home in the cold because I was too busy making phone calls to make sure he didn't freeze.
There was nothing I could do about the jacket now. Nothing I could do about any of it until I had something real to offer.
I pushed through the loading dock door and walked to my car.
My hotel room looked like a crime scene by 1 a.m.
Papers across every surface. Contract clauses highlighted in three colors.
A legal pad covered in handwriting that had devolved from neat to frantic around the fourth cup of coffee.
The mini-fridge hummed its irritating frequency, and I'd started to find it almost comforting. Stockholm syndrome for appliances.
I opened the email folder I'd been avoiding.
The subject lines told the story: Re: Thunder Bay footage - direction notes. Pickle clips - engagement potential. URGENT: More personality content needed.
I clicked through them. Read the words I'd been pretending I could outmaneuver.
The hockey player with the fixations—Pickle—he's gold. Focus groups responded strongly to the napkin clip. Can you get more like that? Moments where he's unaware of the camera.
And:
The Zamboni footage is perfect. That nervous energy reads as relatable/comedic. Network wants to see if there's a pattern.
And:
Re: your concerns about context—we can address tone in the edit. Right now, priority is volume.
There it was. Direct instructions to film Pickle's anxiety responses without his knowledge. To treat his nervous system like B-roll.
I'd done that.
I'd kept the camera rolling when I should have put it down. I'd sent the footage when I should have deleted it. I'd told myself I was playing a long game, building trust with the network so I could shape the final product.
Their version of the final product was circus music over a man pressing his palms against his chest.
I thought about Pickle's hands. How they moved when he spoke—expressive, uncontrolled, like his body couldn't contain everything he was feeling. I remembered how they'd felt on my skin, tracing patterns on my chest while he rambled about penguin mating habits.
Pickle had signed a release form because he trusted me. He'd agreed to be part of a story about the Storm. He hadn't consented to have his life turned into entertainment. He hadn't given permission to be the punchline.
I pulled up a new document and started typing.
Documentation of Editorial Pressure - Thunder Bay Project.
I listed everything. Every email. Every note. Every request to heighten the quirks, capture his worst moments, and prioritize comedy over dignity. Timestamps. Direct quotes. Names.
It took almost three hours. Twenty-one pages.
I saved the file. Made three backup copies. Sent one to Lenny with a note: Insurance. In case I need it.
Then I looked at the clock.
4:47 a.m.
Thirteen minutes until the call I'd been building toward all night.
Somewhere in Thunder Bay, Pickle was sleeping or not sleeping. Either hoping or already starting to wall himself off.
I thought about the weight of him against my chest when he'd said I've got you.
I wanted to be worth that.
I had thirteen minutes to decide what kind of person I was.
At precisely 5:00 a.m., I dialed.
Naomi answered on the second ring. "Adrian."
"Naomi."
A pause. The creak of her chair. "It's early. Even for you."
"I have something to say."
"I'm awake." The click of a pen. "Speak."
"If anything airs that turns Pickle into a joke without his informed consent, I go public."
Silence.
"I have emails," I continued. "Every request you forwarded.
Every note pushing for more chaos. I have timestamps showing the pattern.
I have a twenty-one-page document connecting all of it, with three backup copies in three locations.
And I have contacts at two publications that cover media ethics. "
The pen clicked again. Once. Twice.
"You're threatening me," Naomi said.
"I'm telling you what happens next. If the network releases that cut—the one with the circus music—I burn it all down.
My career. My reputation. Whatever bridges I have left.
I hand everything to the press and let them tell the story of how a streaming network exploited a minor-league hockey player for engagement metrics. "
"That's dramatic."
"It's accurate."
She was quiet. I listened to the silence and tried to read it. Naomi had been my producer for eight years. I knew her tells—how she muted herself when she was calculating and dropped her voice half a register when she'd made a decision.
"Adrian." Her voice dropped. "You understand what you're doing. You'd destroy your career over this."
"Yes."
"Over a hockey player you've known for a few weeks."
I heard what she wasn't saying—my relationship with Pickle was an infatuation, and I'd lost perspective. I was talking about torching my professional life for a twenty-three-year-old I'd met in a parking lot.
She wasn't entirely wrong.
"I'm doing the right thing," I said. "For once."
The words came out soft but certain.
Naomi exhaled. "You know I don't make these decisions. The network has the final cut. Even if I wanted to help—"
"You can help me. Tell them what I have. Make them understand that releasing that cut comes with consequences. Buy me time to find another path."
"Another path to what?"
"To tell this story the right way. With consent. With context. With the version of Pickle that's actually true."
She was quiet. I pictured her at her desk—sticky notes and a photo of her daughter at graduation. Naomi wasn't a villain. She was a professional inside a system that rewarded the kind of exploitation I was trying to stop.
"You really believe in this," she said finally.
"I believe in him."
"I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you." I exhaled.
"Don't thank me yet," she said. "The network wants viral content. Your hockey player tests well. That matters more to them than your threats." A pause. "But I'll make some calls. See if there's room to negotiate."
I sat on the edge of the bed and gripped the mattress.
"Adrian." Her voice sharpened. "You need to tell him. Whatever you're planning—he needs to know. Before any of this goes further."
"I know."
"Do you? From where I'm sitting, you've spent the past week trying to fix this without letting him in the room. That's not protection. That's—"
"Control." Pickle's word fell out. "I know what it is."
"For what it's worth, I've watched your footage. The mentorship clips. The hockey sequences. It's good work. Some of the best you've done. He's lucky to have someone willing to go to war for him."
I sighed. "He doesn't know I'm going to war."
"Then tell him." Professional Naomi was back. "I'll call by noon. Don't do anything stupid before then."
The line went dead.
5:17 a.m.
I'd done it. Made the call. Drawn the line. Threatened to burn down everything I'd spent fifteen years building.
The relief I'd expected didn't come. What came instead was an empty, hollowed-out sensation.
I crossed to the window and thought about Pickle's face resting on the pillow. I thought about how his lips parted slightly, and his hand curled against my chest.
I wanted to see that face again. Wanted to earn the right to wake up next to it.
I checked my phone. No notifications. The last message was still mine:
Please don't walk too far.
He hadn't responded.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I could text him. Tell him about Naomi. Explain what I'd done.
I'm fighting for you. I know it doesn't fix anything, but I'm fighting.
I put the phone down.
I'd spent the past week reaching for him with words rather than with actions. Every message had been a promise I hadn't kept. What he needed wasn't another text. What he needed was proof that my words meant something.
He'd done his part. He'd stayed.
Now it was my turn.
Naomi would call by noon. The network would respond, or they wouldn't. The window would close or crack open.
Until then, all I could do was wait.
The room was cold. My fingers tingled with the memory of Pickle's body—the muscle beneath his soft skin. I could still hear the sound he'd made when the pleasure of my touch caught him off guard.
I wanted to make him make that sound again. I wanted a lot of things I hadn't earned yet.
I pulled the chair to the window and sat. Outside, the Sleeping Giant watched the lake. The lake held its secrets. And somewhere in Thunder Bay, in an apartment that smelled like hockey gear and cheap shampoo, Pickle was deciding whether stopping had been worth it.
I'd chosen who I was.
I'd chosen him.
Whether that would be enough wasn't up to me anymore.