Chapter 24 Adrian
Chapter twenty-four
Adrian
Iwoke up with my phone in my hand.
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 sat up. The laptop rested on the desk next to my notebook, a pen, and an empty water glass. I opened it and pulled up the document Pickle had sent at 4:02 a.m. Five pages. Single-spaced. Every clause numbered.
He'd protected not only himself but Hog, Evan, Jake, and Heath. Even Coach.
I noticed what wasn't there: Punishment language. Financial penalties. Demands that I apologize in writing.
This wasn't revenge. It was architecture.
My old instinct: I should soften this. Reframe it for Lenny. That impulse lasted ten seconds.
Then I opened my email, attached the PDF, and typed: These are the terms.
Sent.
The reply came in four minutes.
Lenny Roth: Reasonable. Harder. Workable.
I closed the laptop. Went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. In the mirror, I saw gray shadows under my eyes, but there was new life beneath the fatigue.
The next several days were a sprint.
I catalogued every piece of footage. Built a master log. Created backups. Documented every download, every share, and every email thread.
Eleven hours of work I should have done from the beginning.
On day two, I called Pickle.
He picked up on the fourth ring. “Yeah?”
“I need to walk you through the footage transfer process.”
Silence. Then, “Okay.”
We stayed on the phone for ninety minutes while I screenshotted every folder, every access point, every place something could be pulled without his knowledge. He asked careful, specific questions. I answered all of them.
At the end, he said, “Send me the login credentials. I want to be able to check.”
“Done.”
There was a pause. Then, quieter, “Did you eat today?”
“What?”
“You sound like you’re vibrating. Like six espressos and maybe a Pop-Tart. I just want to know if I need to send Hog to do a wellness check.”
I nearly smiled. “I ate.”
“Liar. There’s a Thai place next to The Drop. Get pad see ew. The woman who runs it will judge you if you don’t eat vegetables, and honestly? You sound like you need someone to judge you into self-care.”
He hung up before I could respond.
The network kicked back twice. First, they wanted the right to use what they called non-essential background footage without individual approval.
I forwarded the email to Pickle and waited.
His response came back almost immediately: Fuck no.
I forwarded that to Lenny. Hard pass.
Second, they wanted footage locked forty-eight hours before air.
I didn't ask Pickle. Just told Lenny: He withdraws consent when he withdraws consent.
Team consent took longer.
Hog responded first. He didn’t ask to see anything. He didn’t negotiate. He wrote that he was fine with whatever Pickle approved — if Pickle trusted it, so did he.
Evan wanted to see everything. I sent him the full cut. Two days later, he sent back a numbered list of exclusions. Seven items. Specific. Non-negotiable. I marked them off-limits immediately.
Jake replied last, and only because Evan texted him twice. He told me not to use the footage of him falling on his ass during warmups unless I wanted to be haunted for the rest of my natural life. Everything else, he said, was fine.
I laughed.
Heath took two days for his answer.
Heath: I don't want to be in it. I'm sorry.
Adrian: No apology needed. You're out.
I deleted his footage entirely.
By day four, I noticed the rhythm change. I stopped working in long sprints. Started pausing to check in. I was slowing down, but the work was clean.
On day five, I walked to get air. Thunder Bay at night: cold that bit through denim, woodsmoke mixing with truck exhaust, and streetlights haloed with fog.
I turned a corner and saw The Drop's neon sign glowing.
Hadn't planned on stopping in, but the windows were fogged with warmth and music thumped from inside. I pushed through the door.
Heat. Noise. Bodies everywhere.
In the back corner: the Storm.
Hog saw me first. He met my gaze.
I walked toward them.
Jake elbowed Evan. "Documentary man. Didn't expect to see you here."
"Needed air," I said.
"Air's outside," Evan pointed toward the door. "This is a bar."
Hog shifted slightly. Rhett's hand pressed against his knee under the table.
"You want something?" Hog asked. His voice was calm. Dangerously calm.
"I wanted to say I'm sorry. For what the network tried to do and for my part in it."
Silence.
Finally, Jake spoke. "You know what I hate about apologies? When people apologize to other people instead of the person they actually hurt."
"I know."
"Do you?" Evan's voice was soft. "This feels like you're looking for absolution from us instead of doing the actual work with Pickle."
It was a fair critique. "You're right."
Hog set down his beer carefully. "Pickle sent us the terms document. Kid's got a spine made of fucking titanium when he needs it."
"He does."
"You know what else he's got?" Jake asked. "A heart that bruises easily. And you stepped on it."
"I did."
Rhett spoke. "What are you doing here, Adrian?"
"I'm staying in Thunder Bay. I accepted work from you—product photography, if that's still on the table."
Rhett glanced at Hog. "It's still on the table. But if you're staying for Pickle—"
"I'm staying for me."
Evan pulled out his phone and slid it across the table. A photo: Pickle mid-laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkled shut.
"That's who you hurt," Evan said quietly. "Not a cartoon meme. Him."
My chest ached. "I know."
Hog leaned forward. "You hurt him again, and I will make you regret it in ways that are creative and deeply personal."
"Understood."
"Do you like having all your teeth?" Jake asked cheerfully.
"I'd prefer to keep them."
Rhett's hand tightened on Hog's knee. "Enough threats."
"That wasn't a threat," Hog said. "That was a promise."
Jake's mouth twitched. "You really staying in Thunder Bay?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
I looked around The Drop. Foggy windows, scarred tables, and the ancient karaoke machine.
"Because I'm tired of leaving."
Something in Jake's expression softened. "Yeah. I get that."
Evan continued to watch me. "Pickle's not here tonight. He's at home. Probably reorganizing his nearly empty pantry or color-coding his hockey tape."
The image was so perfectly Pickle, I almost smiled.
"You're in his head right now," Hog said. "Taking up space. Making noise."
"I don't want to be noise."
"Then be signal," Evan said. "Be clear. Be consistent. Be worth the risk."
I nodded. "I'm trying."
"Try harder," Jake said. A flat request, not edgy.
I looked at each of them. They were Pickle's people. The ones who'd be there long after I was gone if I fucked this up again.
"Thank you for protecting him."
Hog's expression didn't change. "Always will."
I turned to leave.
"Hey, documentary man," Jake called. "The Thai place next door? Get the pad see ew. You look like you haven't eaten a vegetable in a week."
I chuckled softly. "Someone already gave me that advice."
Jake's grin was sharp. "Yeah. I know."
***
The following morning, I walked into the arena with nothing in my hands.
No camera and no audio recorder.
The Storm were already on the ice for a practice session. I climbed to mid-level seating and sat three rows up.
Pickle was working with Heath near the far blue line. I watched without the instinct to zoom or adjust exposure.
His edges were clean. His hands moved when he explained—quick, expressive, painting the play in the air. He put his hand on Heath's shoulder, adjusted his stance slightly, and stepped back.
Heath tried again. Better.
Pickle's face lit up. He smacked Heath's helmet—affectionate, approving—and they both laughed.
Ninety seconds. Precise. Patient.
Practice continued. Coach ran drills.
Pickle skated to the bench for water. His face was flushed—bright pink across his cheekbones, spreading down his neck. His hair was dark with sweat, curling at the temples.
He squirted water, missed slightly. It dripped down his chin.
He scanned the ice and found Heath struggling again. Dropped his water bottle and vaulted back over the boards—all momentum, pure Pickle energy—and skated straight to Heath.
More instruction. Heath got it right.
Pickle threw both arms up like Heath had won the Stanley Cup.
That was the kind of moment the network tried to delete. Pickle showing up without being asked and celebrating other people's wins.
He was a leader, and underneath my professional observation, I wanted him.
Wanted to see that smile directed at me again. Wanted those quick hands on my skin instead of painting plays in cold air. Wanted to see that flush spreading lower, knowing I was the reason for it.
The ache was sharp.
Beyond my attempts to right my wrongs, I wanted him back. The entire picture, chaos and competence.
Practice ended. Pickle glanced up at the stands as he stepped through the gate.
His eyes caught mine. He didn't wave or smile.
He held my gaze for a moment and then looked away.
I stayed until the Zamboni rolled out.
***
Lenny called at 4:37 p.m.
"It's done. Counter-proposal sent."
"And?"
"They're cornered. We documented their pressure tactics. The optics are bad. They're negotiating full suppression. Original cut won't air. Won't leak."
"What about the counter-doc?"
"Proceeds under Pickle's terms or gets shelved entirely."
I walked to the window. Outside, the street was gray and quiet.
"This is the save," Lenny said. "The original cut is dead."
My shoulders relaxed slightly.
"Next steps depend on what Pickle decides."
"Understood."
He hung up.
I stood at the window and watched the streetlights flicker on. Next, I pulled out my phone and sent a text.
Adrian: Network's burying the original cut. Counter-doc proceeds on your terms if you decide you want it.
No response came.
I didn't tense. I didn't try to predict his next move.
Lenny called back twenty minutes later.
"What's next for you?"