Chapter 23 Pickle
Chapter twenty-three
Pickle
Istood on the sidewalk outside Adrian's hotel and made a choice.
Not Jake and Evan. They'd want to fix it—Evan with spreadsheets and Jake with volcanic rage and a probable fistfight in a parking lot. They'd mean well. They'd love me hard, but I'd spend the whole night managing their feelings about my feelings, and I didn't have it in me.
Hog.
I needed Hog.
I pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over his name for three seconds—long enough to second-guess, but not long enough to talk myself out of it.
Pickle: you up?
Three dots appeared immediately.
Hog: Always. You good?
I stared at the question. The automatic lie was right there—yeah, man, just restless—but my fingers typed something else.
Pickle: can I come over
Hog: Door's open.
No what happened, or are you okay, or do you need me to hurt someone. Just: door's open.
I started walking.
When I arrived, Hog and Rhett's door was cracked open—not wide, just enough that I could see the warm glow of a lamp inside.
I knocked anyway. Seemed polite.
"It's open, Pickle."
I pushed through.
The smells hit me immediately: pine soap and something baking. Bread, maybe. Or muffins. The kind of smell that made you feel like someone's grandmother lived there, except the grandmother was a six-three enforcer who drove a Prius.
Yarn everywhere. On the couch arm, spilling out of a basket by the TV, and a half-finished something in Storm colors was draped across the coffee table with needles sticking out at angles.
Rhett sat on the couch in socks and an old Henley, laptop closed beside him. He gave me a nod. He looked different there than he had on Shark Tank. Smaller. More human. Less polished pitch-man, and more guy who'd been reading on the couch with his boyfriend.
"Hey," Rhett said.
"Hey."
Hog emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel.
"You hungry?" he asked.
"Not really."
"Shoes off wherever," Hog said. "Couch is yours if you want it."
I kicked off my Crocs. They landed in a heap by the door, one of them upside down. I didn't fix them.
Small victory.
I sat on the couch. Rhett shifted slightly to give me more room.
Hog disappeared into the kitchen. I heard the kettle click on and the clink of mugs.
It was quiet.
I waited for it to feel uncomfortable—for my brain to start generating content to fill the void and make everyone feel better about the fact that I'd shown up unannounced, looking like someone had run me through a wood chipper.
It didn't happen.
Hog came back with two mugs of tea and set one in front of me. He settled into the armchair across from the couch, picked up his knitting, and started working. The needles made a soft click-click-click.
Rhett glanced at his phone, then set it down. "I'm gonna take a shower," he said. "Holler if you need anything."
He squeezed Hog's shoulder as he passed. Disappeared down the hallway.
Then it was just Hog and me and the clicking needles.
"You don't have to talk yet, but when you're ready, I'm here."
I picked up the mug and wrapped my hands around it. The heat stung a little, but in a good way—something sharp and present to anchor me.
I watched Hog's hands move. Loop, pull, adjust. It was the same motion over and over, building something out of string and patience.
"I watched it," I said finally. "The network cut. The thing they made with the footage Adrian gave them."
Hog's needles paused—for a second. Then they started moving again.
"And?"
"And it was—" I stopped. Took a breath. Started again.
"They turned me into a punchline. Circus music while I check the Zamboni.
Cartoon sound effects when I fixed the chair at The Drop.
They took the interview footage—the part where I said I wanted to be remembered for the right reasons—and they cut it into me spraying water in my own face. "
The needles kept clicking.
"They cut everything else," I said. My voice came out steadier than I expected. "All the hockey. The mentorship with Heath. The reads I made during practice. Every single piece of footage that showed me as a real player—they rejected it. Adrian sent it. Multiple times. They said no every time."
"But they kept the disasters."
"Yeah."
Hog set his knitting down and looked at me.
"They didn't just mock me," I said. "They erased me. They took everything that makes me competent and deleted it. What’s left is the clatter. Me dropping things. Me fixing things. Me looking like I don’t know what I’m doing."
I'd said exactly what I meant to say. No spiral.
Hog leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "People who love you don't edit you smaller."
The line landed like a fist to the chest.
From the bathroom, I heard the shower turn on. The pipes groaned.
"Adrian said he was trying to protect me," I said quietly. "He said he was buying time. Sending them what they wanted so he could stay on the project and influence the final cut."
"Did it work?"
"No."
"Then he wasn't protecting you. He was managing you." Hog's voice was matter-of-fact. "There's a difference."
I stared into my tea. The surface rippled slightly because my hands were trembling.
"How do I know which version of Adrian is real? The one who held me like I mattered, or the one who sent footage of me the network could turn into a meme?"
Hog didn't hesitate. "You watch what happens next."
No I'm sure he loves you, or people make mistakes. He gave me reality, served straight.
I nodded. Set the mug down.
"I should go."
"You don't have to."
"I know. But I—" I gestured vaguely at myself. "I need to move. My body's doing this thing where it feels like if I sit still too long, I'll vibrate apart."
Hog stood. Crossed to the door. Pulled his keys off the hook and held them out.
"Rink keys," he said. "Emergency lights are on a switch by the Zamboni bay. Lock up when you're done."
I took the keys.
"Thanks. Tell Rhett thanks, too. For being here. For not making it weird."
"He knows."
I shoved my feet back into my Crocs. Hog opened the door for me.
At the threshold, I stopped.
"He offered me a counter-doc," I said. "Different production company. I'd get final cut approval. Veto rights. All of it."
"You gonna do it?"
"I don't know yet." I looked into Hog's eyes. "Is that okay? Not knowing?"
"Yeah, Pickle. That's okay."
I left before my throat could close up.
***
The arena looked different at midnight.
I'd been here a thousand times—practices, games, but never like this. Never alone.
I unlocked the side door with Hog's keys. The alarm beeped twice. I punched in the code Coach had made us all memorize: 1-9-7-2, the year Thunder Bay got its first hockey arena, back when the ice was actual lake water, and half the players had hypothermia by third period.
The beeping stopped. Silence rushed in to fill the space.
I made my way to the locker room. My stall was exactly how I'd left it—jersey hanging crooked, tape scattered across the bench, and my skates shoved in the cubby.
I sat down. The bench creaked under me—the same creak it always made. I removed my Crocs and set them carefully on the floor, side by side.
Then I reached for my skates. Left foot first. The familiar resistance of stiff leather. My heel settled into the pocket I'd broken in over two seasons. Laces through the hooks—pull, cross, pull, tighten. Not too tight at the ankle. Snug through the arch. Lock it down at the top.
Right foot. Same process.
By the time I stood, my body had remembered something my brain had been trying to forget: this was mine.
The ice was dark except for the emergency lights mounted high in the rafters. They cast long shadows across the surface—the nets at either end, the benches, and the Zamboni sitting silent in its bay.
I began to skate.
The first push was tentative. Testing. My edges caught and held, and the sound—that specific scrape of blade on ice—cut through the silence like a bell.
I pushed again. Harder this time. My body knew what to do.
I picked up speed. The emergency lights blurred past. My breath came faster, fogging in the cold air. I hit center ice and stopped hard—edges digging in, snow spraying, my core tight to keep from pitching forward.
Silence. Just my breathing and the faint hum of the building's heating system.
I skated backward. Slow at first, then faster. Backward crossovers—right over left this time, the weaker direction. My ankle wobbled slightly. I adjusted. Found the edge. Held it.
The network could splice footage. They could add circus music, cartoon sound effects, and laugh tracks. They could cut out every moment of competence and leave only the chaos, but they couldn't cut this.
They couldn't erase the muscle memory in my hips, thighs, and core. They couldn't delete the thousand hours of practice that taught my body how to read ice.
Hockey still answered when I asked.
I stopped at the far end. Bent forward, hands on my knees, breathing hard.
The burn in my legs felt good. Real. Proof that I existed outside of Adrian's lens and the network's edits.
I straightened up. Skated the length of the ice, building speed. Hit the far boards and circled back.
Again and again.
I circled the neutral zone. My breath synced with my stride—in on the push, out on the glide. My heart rate climbed and plateaued. The cold air burned my lungs in the best way.
I was halfway through another lap when I heard it. A cough.
I stopped so fast I nearly fell over.
My head snapped toward the sound. The stands were dark—mostly—but I spotted a shape in the third row. Someone sitting. Watching.
"Jesus Christ," I said, my voice echoing in the empty arena. "You trying to give me a heart attack?"
"Sorry." Heath's voice drifted down. "Didn't mean to—I just—" He paused. "I couldn't sleep."
I skated to the boards. Squinted up at him.
He looked terrible. Shoulders hunched, hoodie pulled up, hands shoved in the front pocket. The emergency lights cast shadows across his face.
"How long have you been up there?" I asked.