Chapter 25 Pickle
Chapter twenty-five
Pickle
The week after the parking lot happened around me like weather—inevitable, unchangeable, something I moved through without trying to control.
Monday practice: I showed up on time, tied my skates without disaster, and did the drills without turning them into performance art. Heath fumbled a pass in the neutral zone. I skated over. "Watch Desrosiers' stick. He telegraphs before he shoots."
Heath blinked like I'd spoken Mandarin, then nodded. Next drill, he read it. Intercepted clean.
Coach blew the whistle. "Piatkowski. Good eye."
I didn't make a thing of it. Just tapped Heath's shin pads and kept moving.
That night, Adrian texted: Counter-proposal submitted. Will update when I know more.
I sent back a thumbs-up. Nothing else.
Tuesday: We played Sault Ste. Marie at home. We packed the arena—standing room only. The smell of cheap hot dogs and spilled beer was thick in the air. The ice was fast, and my legs felt good.
Second period, three minutes in, Hog took a shot from the point. Their goalie got a piece, but the rebound kicked out to the side. I saw it coming before it happened—measured the angle, spotted their defenseman turning wrong, and the puck dropped exactly where I needed to be.
I crashed the crease. Someone's elbow caught me in the ribs—sharp, immediate pain—but I stayed upright. Got my stick on the puck and jammed it past the goalie's pad.
The horn blared. Our fans erupted.
I skated back to the bench, and Jake grabbed my helmet, shaking it hard enough to rattle my brain. The hit to my ribs throbbed, but the good kind of pain. The kind that meant I'd earned something.
Third period, with six minutes left, Hog wound up from the blue line again. Their goalie cheated high. I'd been watching him all game, knew his patterns, and knew he dropped to his knees too early on rebounds.
The shot came. Their goalie made the save, but the rebound dropped clean to my tape. I buried it bar-down before anyone else registered it was there.
The crowd was on fire. Jake was already over the boards. "That's my fucking rookie!"
"Not a rookie anymore," I said, grinning.
"You'll always be my rookie."
That night, lying in bed, I pressed my fingers against the bruise blooming across my ribs. Purple-black, tender. Proof I'd put my body where it needed to be.
Wednesday: The footage thing spread through the rumor mill. Fragments in the equipment room, and half a conversation at the bagel place.
Adrian sent three texts with subject lines like "Update" and "Progress." I didn't read them. Whatever was happening with lawyers and networks, it was happening. My job was to show up and play hockey. That was its own kind of relief.
Thursday: Team dinner at Evan and Jake's place. Jake made something involving pasta, forty cloves of garlic, and a structural integrity problem. "It's deconstructed," Jake said when the lasagna collapsed.
"It's soup," Evan said.
"Deconstructed lasagna soup."
I ate three bowls. Afterward, Hog sat next to me on the couch, knitting. The needles clicked in a steady rhythm. We sat in comfortable silence. He said, without looking up, "You've been solid this week."
"Thanks."
"Means something." He finished a row and turned the piece over. "You're still showing up. For you. Not for anybody else."
I swallowed hard. "Yeah."
"You know what the hardest thing about hockey is?" Hog asked.
"What?"
"Showing up when nobody's watching. When there's no crowd, no cameras, and no one keeping score." He glanced at me. "That's when you find out who you really are."
"And who am I?"
"Someone who shows up." He went back to his knitting. "That's not nothing, Pickle."
His hand landed on top of my head—heavy, brief, like I was a slightly less well-behaved version of Biscuit. Then he went back to knitting as if nothing had happened.
Friday: I stayed late after practice to skate. Fresh ice, just me and the sound of my edges carving the surface. Coach wandered out and leaned against the boards.
After two minutes: "You look different."
"Different how?"
"Focused." He sipped his coffee. "You're moving with purpose now. Keep it up."
He walked away before I could ask what it was.
Saturday: I cleaned my apartment. The real kind of cleaning.
At the bottom of the junk drawer, I found a receipt from my first date with Adrian at the Thai restaurant. Proof that we'd been a thing. Evidence.
I put the receipt back and closed the drawer.
Sunday: I woke up and realized the week had passed without drama. I'd just lived it.
I sat on the edge of my bed in boxers and a Storm hoodie, staring at my phone. Adrian's Thursday text: Counter-proposal accepted. Network agreed to bury the original cut. Will send details when finalized.
Two days of silence since then. I thought about Hog's words. About showing up for myself.
I thought about Adrian at Friday's practice—sitting in the stands, no camera, just watching. He'd stayed for the whole thing, then left without trying to talk to me. He was doing what he said he'd do. I pulled out my phone.
Pickle: Come over.
Three dots appeared. Stopped. Started again.
Adrian: When?
Pickle: Now.
Adrian: Okay. Out looking at apartments, but I'll be there in 20.
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on my door. He stood there in a gray henley and dark jeans, hands in his pockets.
"Hi."
"Come in."
He stepped inside carefully, taking in my place—the mismatched furniture, the Storm jersey Jake had signed To Pickle, who makes me look good by comparison, and the shelf of peewee medals and a Niagara Falls snow globe.
"Your place is very you," he said.
"Still me. Is that a compliment?"
"Yeah."
I sat on the couch. Patted the cushion. He sat, leaving six inches between us.
I turned to face him. "I need to say some things. Listen. Don't interrupt, don't explain, and don't fix."
"Understood."
"If you're staying in Thunder Bay, you need to want to be here. Not because of me. You have to want this town, the rink, and the fact that nothing's open past nine and winter lasts until May."
He nodded.
"I'm not a project, and I'm not your redemption arc. If you stay, I'm just me—a minor league player who still gets his hand stuck in Pringles cans. I'm not going to be more than that for you."
"I don't want you to be more than that."
I held up a hand. "Not done."
I looked at my hands. Bitten nails. Tape residue on my thumb.
"I'm not your reason for staying. I can't be that. If we do this, I need to be part of your life, not the whole thing. You have to want Thunder Bay when I'm at away games, and when I'm having a shit week, barely existing."
"I want all of that," he said. "I spent fifteen years always leaving, always moving toward the next thing. I don't want to arrive anymore. I want to stay."
"In Thunder Bay. A place where it's big news when Tim Hortons adds a new donut."
"Where I've watched grown men cry over a packaging product. Where I've met a team that takes care of each other in ways I didn't know people could." He paused. "And yeah, it is where you are, but that's not the only reason. I like who I am when I'm here."
It was hard to breathe for a moment.
"This is a start," I said. "Not a reset. I need to be able to be mad at you sometimes without you freaking out over it."
"You can be mad at me as long as you need to be. I broke your trust. That doesn't get fixed in a week or a month."
I studied his face. I looked for the catch and didn't find one.
The haunted chair creaked.
"That chair is cursed," Adrian said.
"My grandmother's. She was kind of a witch, but in a good way. She blessed it, but she was bad at blessings, so they came out weird."
He almost smiled.
I took a breath.
"You hurt me. You lied. You made choices about my life without asking."
Adrian nodded.
"I'm still mad about that, but I don't hate you."
Relief flooded his expression. "What else do you feel?" he asked.
"Confused. Scared. Kind of hopeful in a way that pisses me off." I looked at him. "You're different. Not just saying things. You showed up at practice without a camera. Now, you're sitting here letting me be mad at you without trying to fast-forward past it."
"Those things shouldn't be a big surprise."
"But they are. With you, they are."
I reached over and took his hand. He looked up, surprised. "I'm not ready for everything. But I'm ready for this."
His fingers curled around mine. I realized I wanted more.
"Adrian."
He looked at me.
"Can I kiss you?"
His eyes widened. "Are you sure?"
"I wouldn't ask if I wasn't sure."
"Yes. You can kiss me."
I leaned in slowly. Our lips met carefully, tentatively. His were softer than I remembered.
I pulled back. "Okay?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah."
I kissed him again. Longer this time. Heat started to build in my chest.
"Bedroom?" I asked.
"Yeah."
I stood. "I need to be in charge."
"Okay."
"I mean it. I need to tell you what to do and control the pace. Can you do that?"
"I will do whatever you need me to do. Just tell me."
I had goosebumps for some reason.
"Bedroom."
My room was the same as always: an unmade bed, clothes on the floor, and a wall of hockey posters in a straight row. The bruise on my ribs had darkened to purple-black. I turned to face Adrian. "Come here."
He stepped up close. I reached for his henley. "Can I?"
"Yeah."
I pulled it off. He was still lean and solid. I traced a hand down his chest, felt his breath hitch. "Your turn."
He pulled off my hoodie carefully. He took me in with his eyes—my shoulders, my chest, the bruise. His fingers hovered near it. "Does it hurt?"
"Only when I breathe. I'm kidding—it's fine. It's hockey." I caught his hand and pressed it to my chest. "Touch me."
He explored carefully—collarbones, nipples, stomach. His thumbs brushed my hipbones. More goosebumps.
"You're beautiful," he said.
I kissed him to shut him up. Walked him backward until his legs hit the bed. "Sit."
He sat.
I stood between his knees. "I'm going to tell you what I want, and you're going to do it. If you don't like something, tell me immediately. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I understand. If I don't like something, I'll tell you immediately."
I kissed him—longer and deeper. His hands tightened on my hips, pulling me closer. When I pulled back, his pupils were dilated.
"Touch me. Shoulders first."
He spread his fingers wide, moving slowly and deliberately. When he pinched a nipple between index finger and thumb, I grunted.
"Okay?"
"Yeah. More."
His thumbs circled, firmer. I felt it everywhere—in my dick, already half-hard against my sweats.
"Stop acting like you're afraid to break me."
His hands pressed firmly and then dragged down toward my cock. He leaned forward, kissing the center of my chest and my ribs above the bruise.
"Better." I pushed him back on the bed. Climbed over him. Straddled his hips. I felt him hard beneath me.
"You're in charge," he said, looking up at me. "I've never done that before. Not really."
"How does it feel?"
"Scary. Good. Both."
I kissed his jaw and his neck, finding the spot below his ear that made him gasp.
"I want you to touch me like you mean it. Not like I'm fragile."
He gripped my hips hard enough to leave marks. I groaned.
"Like that?"
"Yeah. Definitely like that."
I rocked forward. The friction made us both moan. "You're killing me," Adrian breathed.
"Good."
I ground down. Watched his face—eyes fluttering, jaw clenched, fingers digging into my hips.
"Look at me."
He opened his eyes.
"I want to see you. The whole time."
I reached between us. Palmed him through his jeans. He was hard, straining, and when I squeezed, his hips jerked.
"Can I?"
"God, yes."
I unbuckled his belt, popped the button, and slowly pulled the zipper down. When I got my hand inside and wrapped my fingers around his cock, skin to skin, he whimpered.
"I know."
I stroked him slowly.
"Off," I said, tugging his jeans.
He lifted his hips. He pulled his jeans and boxers down, then tugged on my sweats. For a moment, we just looked at each other. Both bare, both hard, and both breathing like we'd finished a shift.
I stretched out on top of him. Skin to skin. Almost overwhelming. My dick slid against his.
"Tell me what you want," he said against my mouth.
"This. Your hands everywhere."
His hands roamed—back, ass, thighs. Exploring me. When he squeezed my ass and pulled me tighter, I saw stars.
"Don't stop."
We moved faster, more desperate. I buried my face in his neck. His hand slid between us, wrapping around both of us. The sensation punched the air out of my lungs.
He stroked us together—hand tight, rhythm perfect.
"You feel so good," he said.
"Harder."
He squeezed tighter, moved faster. I bit down on his shoulder—not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to leave a mark.
"I'm close."
"Me too."
His thumb swept across the head of my dick. I came, grunting out his name, and my whole body shaking.
He followed seconds later. We collapsed together, breathing hard.
"Holy shit," I said into his shoulder.
"Yeah."
I pressed my face against his chest.
"You okay?" I asked.
"A lot better than that."
I looked at him. "I'm still mad at you. This doesn't fix everything."
"I know. You can be mad at me and also have sex with me. Those things aren't mutually exclusive."
"Good. I plan on doing both."
He smiled. "I can live with that."
Eventually, I grabbed my Storm practice jersey from the floor to clean us up.
"That's your jersey," Adrian said.
"I have like six. Don't be precious about it."
He laughed, and the sound filled the room. I climbed back into bed and pulled the blanket over us. He wrapped an arm around me, and I tucked myself against his side.
"This is nice."
"Yeah?"
"Weird, but nice. I didn't expect to feel this okay."
"I'm glad you do."
"Don't get used to it. I'll probably be mad again tomorrow."
"I'll be ready."
The haunted chair creaked.
"Your grandmother's very invested in this relationship."
"Probably saying 'don't fuck this up, documentary boy.'"
"She was protective."
"So's the chair." I yawned. "It's watching you."
"Should I be worried?"
"Only if you hurt me again."
"Then I have nothing to worry about."
I believed him. "Stay. Don't leave while I'm asleep. The team's going to know soon anyway—they always know everything. I need you to still be here when I wake up."
"I promise. I swear on the haunted chair."
Sleep tugged at me. Adrian's body was warm against mine.
The chair creaked once more.
"She approves," I mumbled.
I didn't brace for impact or wait for the other shoe to drop. I'd chosen Adrian and fell asleep smiling.