Chapter 23 Pickle #2
"I don't know. Twenty minutes? I heard you come in. I was gonna say something, but then you started skating, and I didn't want to interrupt."
I rested my forearms on the boards. My heart rate was still elevated, my breath still coming fast.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Yeah. I mean—" He made a vague gesture. "No. Not really. I keep thinking about the two-way contract. What happens if they send me down? If they decide I'm not ready. And then my head won’t let me stay on the shift I’m actually playing."
I knew that spiral. I'd lived in it for most of my career.
"You heard something about me?"
Heath hesitated. "Jake mentioned—he didn't give me details. Said you were dealing with some stuff. With the documentary guy."
"I'm figuring it out."
Heath nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Can I tell you something?" Heath asked quietly.
"Yeah."
"You're the reason I haven't asked for a trade."
I stared up at him.
"Every game that I play like shit and feel like—like I'm taking up space someone deserves more than me—I almost call my agent and tell him to get me out."
My hands tightened on the boards.
"But you always pull me aside and don't let me quit. You said getting up is the whole job." His voice cracked slightly. "You make it feel like I can do it."
I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
"I'm not saying I've got it all fixed," Heath said.
"It's still early in the season, and I'm still scared shitless most of the time.
But I'm going to stay. You make me believe I can belong here.
" He stared into my eyes. "So whatever you're dealing with—I just wanted you to know that. You kept me from folding."
I was someone's reason. I was the person who made someone else believe they deserved to stay.
"Thanks," I managed. "For telling me."
Heath stood. "I should let you get back to—whatever this is."
"Taking control of my story," I said. The words sort of tumbled out. "Through the power of crossovers and emotional avoidance."
He laughed softly. "That's very on-brand for you."
"I try."
He disappeared into the darkness. A door opened somewhere and closed.
I was alone again.
I stood at the boards staring at the ice I'd carved up. Heath's words circled in my head.
You kept me from folding.
The network had tried to erase my competence and reduce me to noise and disaster.
Heath knew better. My team knew better. Somewhere underneath the hurt and the anger, I knew better, too.
I pushed off the boards. Skated one more lap—slow this time. Let my body feel every shift of weight and every muscle engaging the way it was supposed to.
Then I headed for the locker room.
I sat on the bench and stared at my phone.
Three missed calls from Jake. Two texts from Evan asking if I was okay. One from Coach that just said: Practice 10am. Don't be late.
Nothing from Adrian.
Good.
I didn't want to hear from him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I hadn't decided.
What I had decided was what happened next.
Not what Adrian wanted.
Not what the network wanted.
What I wanted.
I opened my notes app and started typing.
The list came out messy. They always did. My brain needed to organize something, anything, when everything else felt like chaos.
finish the season - no running
don't explain myself to death
counter-doc = MY terms or fuck it
Adrian has to EARN this not just apologize his way back in
sorry is a starting point not the end
I'm not too much I'm not too much I'm NOT
hockey knows me even when they don't
the power shifted
I'm not giving it back
I read it twice. Then I closed the app.
My hands were steady. That surprised me. Usually, after this kind of night—emotions on steroids—my hands shook for hours. Right now, they were calm.
Solid.
I unlaced my skates and grabbed my Crocs from where I'd left them by my stall. Slid them on. The orange looked extra aggressive under the fluorescent lights.
Perfect.
I locked up the way Hog had trusted me to. Alarm code. Side door. Keys back in my pocket.
The walk back to my apartment took fifteen minutes. The streets were empty except for one guy walking his dog—some kind of husky mix.
"Rough night?" the guy asked as we passed.
"You have no idea."
He nodded at my Crocs. "I hear that."
We kept walking in opposite directions.
I climbed the three flights to my apartment. Inside, everything was exactly as I'd left it. Jacket on the floor. Dishes in the sink. It smelled like stale air and the faint ghost of burnt toast—nothing like the warm bread-and-pine-soap safety of Hog's place.
The haunted chair creaked once in the corner.
"Shut up," I told it.
It settled into silence.
I sat on my bed. Pulled out my phone.
Opened a new message to Adrian.
I could write a novel, explaining every hurt feeling. I could make him understand exactly what he'd done, how it had landed, and why it mattered.
Or I could just tell him what I needed.
I started typing.
Pickle: Counter-doc terms if I agree: final cut approval, full veto rights, and team consent. No time limit on my decision. Non-negotiable.
I read it three times.
No big emotions. No invitation to convince me.
My conditions.
I hit send. The message showed as delivered immediately.
Then three dots appeared.
I watched them pulse. Once. Twice.
No response came.
Part of me had wanted him to fight. To argue. To try to negotiate his way back into my good graces with pretty words and promises.
Part of me was relieved he didn't.
Was he learning? Or was it too late?
I didn't know which I wanted more.
I set my phone on the nightstand. Plugged it in. Turned off the ringer.
Then I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes.
The power had shifted, and I wasn't giving it back.
Somewhere between that thought and the next, I fell asleep.
Deep. Earned. Unguarded.
No bracing for impact.
Just rest.