Epilogue - Pickle
The noise hit my chest before it reached my ears.
Packed house at the arena—every seat full, standing room crammed, and the sound bouncing off the rafters. It wasn't music. It wasn't organized. It was Thunder Bay being Thunder Bay: loud, loyal, and slightly unhinged.
I loved it so hard my ribs ached.
Final home game of the season. We'd earned playoffs. This was the bow on top.
I centered myself at the faceoff dot. Skates gripping the ice. Stick light in my hands. My breath fogged in short bursts, and the cold bit at my lungs in a good way.
The ref held the puck overhead.
I didn't look at the clock. Didn't scan for Adrian in the stands. Didn't check whether Coach was watching.
I waited.
The puck dropped.
I won it clean—snapped it back to Desrosiers before their center's stick even moved. My body took over after that. No thought. Pure movement.
I broke left, hard, cutting across the blue line. Evan barked something from the point. I didn't catch the words, but I felt the shape of them—move, now, go.
Their defenseman tried to step up. I faked inside, went outside, and suddenly there was space.
The puck hit my stick off a weird bounce. I corralled it, took two strides, and sent it cross-ice to Jake, who was crashing the far post like a man with a personal vendetta against the goalie.
He buried it.
The lamp lit. The horn blasted. The arena exploded.
Jake slammed into me first, then Evan, and then the rest of the line. We collided in a tangle of gloves and helmets and ridiculous joy. For a second, I couldn't tell where I ended, and they began.
When we broke apart, I skated back to the bench. Coach caught my eye as I hopped over the boards and nodded—one that meant good shift, keep going.
I sat. Caught my breath. Let the game keep moving.
This was it. Not the goal, not the noise, not the crowd.
Just me, present in my own body, trusting it to know what to do next.
The penalty was entirely my fault.
Second period, tied 2-2, and I got too eager. Their winger had the puck along the boards, and I saw a play developing.
Except I led with my stick instead of my feet, and the hook was obvious enough that the ref's arm went up before I'd even finished the motion.
The whistle blew.
I didn't argue. Just went to the box, sat down, and watched the clock start counting. Two minutes. My fault. Fine.
Our PK unit held. When my penalty expired, I hopped back onto the ice and got to work.
Third period. 3-2, us.
I was on the ice for a defensive zone draw when I saw it—their center was lining up slightly too far forward, weight already shifting toward the boards before the puck even dropped.
He was going to cheat the faceoff.
The puck hit the ice. He moved exactly like I'd predicted, and I was already there. I stepped into the passing lane, caught the puck on my blade, and pivoted hard toward center ice.
Their defenseman lunged. Missed.
Suddenly, I had space. Open space.
The crowd noise spiked—a sharp, rising surge that meant they'd seen it too.
I hit the blue line with speed, Desrosiers flying up my right side, and their last defender had to choose: step to me or cover the pass.
He stepped toward me.
I slid the puck across.
Desrosiers one-timed it top shelf.
The arena went nuclear.
I didn't raise my stick. I exhaled and let the sound crash over me like a tsunami.
Recognition, not surprise.
With four minutes left, we were up 4-3, and their coach pulled the goalie.
I was out there for the final shift, legs burning, lungs screaming, and every muscle reminding me I'd been playing hard for fifty-six minutes.
The puck bounced loose in the neutral zone. I got there first.
No time or space. Three of their guys collapsing on me.
Jake streaked up the far wing—too far, technically. The angle was impossible. The lane didn't exist.
I sent the puck anyway.
Backhand sauce, threaded between two defenders who didn't see it coming because it shouldn't have worked.
The puck landed flat on Jake's tape.
He fired it into the empty net from center ice.
The building exploded.
This time I did lift my stick. Acknowledgment. Yeah, okay, that one was pretty good.
Jake crashed into me at full speed, laughing like a maniac. Evan joined the pile. Then Desrosiers. Then half the bench.
The final horn sounded. We'd won. 5-3. Final home game of the season. Playoffs locked.
I pulled off my helmet and let the cold air hit my face. Sweat dripped down my temples, and my chest heaved. I felt good.
Not perfect or flawless. Competent, credible, and present.
I'd made a dumb penalty, but I'd also made plays that mattered. Both were true. Both were me.
Everything descended into chaos—fans banging on the glass and teammates cycling through hugs and chirps. Someone had started a chant, and it was spreading like a virus.
I let myself get pulled into it. Hog crushed me in a bear hug that lifted my skates off the ice. Coach grabbed my shoulder and said something I didn't quite catch but understood from the weight of his hand.
Then I looked up. My eyes drifted to the usual spot—section 104, row J, seat 12—and there he was.
Adrian.
Same seat he'd had for weeks. Same dark jacket. Same posture—elbows on his knees, leaning forward. Watching.
No camera. He was a guy in the stands watching his boyfriend play hockey.
Our eyes met. I lifted my stick. Slight. Subtle. I see you too.
Adrian smiled.
Jake slammed into my side, and I had to brace against the boards to keep from eating ice. "Stop making eyes at your boyfriend and get your ass to the locker room!"
Before I followed him, I glanced back one more time. Adrian was still there. Still smiling.
I turned and skated toward the tunnel, letting the noise fade as the win settled into my bones.
The locker room noise was loud enough to rattle the ceiling tiles. Music blasting. Hog still in full gear, grinning like he'd just won the Stanley Cup.
I was unlacing my skates when Coach appeared in the doorway. The room didn't fall silent immediately. It took a second—someone turned down the music, Jake elbowed Evan, and the awareness spread like ripples on water.
Coach scanned the room. His jaw worked like he was chewing something over.
"Heath," he said. "C'mere."
The celebration noise died completely.
Heath looked up from his stall. His face turned pale.
He stood. Walked over. I knew that walk. I'd done that walk.
"Chicago wants you," Coach said. No preamble. "You're going."
Silence. Then, complete commotion. Cheering, yelling, and someone banging their stick against the floor. Hog let out a whoop while Jake launched himself at Evan, who actually smiled—a real one.
Heath froze—shell-shocked. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
I pushed through the chaos. Grabbed Heath's shoulders and made him look at me.
"Hey," I said.
He blinked. Focused. His eyes were wet.
"You're ready," I told him.
His face crumpled. "I don't—"
"You are. You've been ready for weeks."
"But what if I'm not good enough?"
I thought about every time I'd asked myself the same thing. Every moment I'd convinced myself I was only valuable as entertainment.
"Belonging is something you claim," I said. Quieter, just for him. "Not something they give you. You show up. You do the work. You prove it to yourself first."
He grabbed me—fierce, grateful, breathless—and hugged me so hard my ribs protested. His shoulders shook.
I held him. Didn't let go. Didn't tell him to pull it together or make a joke to cut the tension. I held him until the moment settled.
When Heath finally pulled back, his face was blotchy and wet, but he was smiling.
"Thank you," he said, voice rough.
"You earned it. Now go pack your shit. Chicago's not gonna wait."
He laughed.
Jake appeared at my elbow. "You made our baby cry."
"Shut the fuck up, Jake," Heath said, still smiling.
"There he is! That's the guy Chicago's getting."
The room erupted again. This time, Heath let himself get pulled into it—hugs and chirps and someone trying to dump a cooler of water over his head before Coach intervened.
I stepped back and watched it happen. I'd been where he was. Desperate to prove I belonged. Terrified someone would look too close and see all the cracks. I wasn't there anymore.
The noise swelled around me—teammates celebrating, Coach trying to restore order, and Biscuit barking from somewhere near Hog's stall.
This was my team. My family. My place.
***
The celebration decided to relocate to The Drop.
It had been going for two hours when I stepped outside. The cold hit me like a wall. Less brutal than January, but Thunder Bay winter didn't quit easily.
Adrian followed me. He jammed his hands in his pockets, jacket zipped to his throat, and a small smile still lingered.
The street was quiet. Streetlights cast orange pools of light. I reached out and took his hand.
His fingers laced through mine, warm despite the cold.
"Thanks for staying," I said.
He glanced at me. "You already thanked me. Like six times in the last week."
"I mean, in general. You didn't have to choose this. Thunder Bay. Me. The local photography gigs and the terrible apartment heating."
"I'm exactly the right size for this life," he said quietly. "For you. For here. I don't need bigger. I needed real."
"You're sure?" I asked. "Because I'm still gonna be a disaster sometimes."
"I know."
"And I'm still gonna be loud and weird and—"
"Pickle." He stepped closer. "I don't want a different version of you. I want this one."
I believed him. I wasn't too much. I was enough.
I pulled him in and kissed him. Right there on the sidewalk in the middle of Thunder Bay, where anyone could see. The cold bit at my face, and snow had started falling again, but all I felt was Adrian—warm and solid and mine.
No hiding.
Adrian kissed me back. One hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. The other stayed tangled with mine.
When we broke apart, I was smiling so hard my face hurt.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing. Just—this. You. All of it."
I tugged his hand. "Come on. Let's go home before Jake sees us and makes it weird."
"Too late," Adrian said, nodding toward The Drop's window.
Jake's face was pressed against the glass. When he saw us looking, he waved frantically, then gave an exaggerated thumbs-up.
"He's never gonna let this go," I said.
"Nope."
"Worth it?"
Adrian squeezed my hand. "Absolutely."
We walked home together. Snow falling. Thunder Bay quiet around us.
My legs still ached from the game. My hands were cold, and my heart felt too big for my chest.
I was twenty-three. I played hockey in a minor league in a city most people couldn't find on a map. I lived in a drafty apartment with a haunted chair and a boyfriend who'd given up prestige to photograph storage units.
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't viral. It was mine. Top shelf.
***
Thank you for reading Top Shelf, the third book in the Storm Warning series.