I wasn't wrong. It was exactly what it looked like: chaos, noise, and a guy who felt everything at full volume, letting it spill out wherever it landed. Pickle wasn't performing. He just was.
Still, back then, I'd missed the most important part. There was a foundation beneath what looked like a mess—the hockey brain that read plays two beats early, the heart that noticed when a rookie was drowning, and the fear that all anyone would ever see was the surface.
The network wanted the surface. They'd throw out everything underneath.
The hotel appeared at the end of the block. Two weeks of the humming mini-fridge and industrial carpet. Two weeks that had changed everything.
Two missed calls from Naomi. She left a voicemail with each.
The first voicemail was professional: "The network assembled a reference cut. I'm forwarding it now."
The second was a warning: "What they've done—it's not what you intended. Just watch it. Then call me."
I sat at the desk. Clicked play.
The cut opened at The Drop—the celebration after Rhett's episode. Jump cuts between faces, then Pickle careening into the frame, arms wide, beer sloshing. The footage slowed. Someone had added a slide whistle as he nearly hit a chair.
I gripped the edge of the desk.
The chair scene came next—Pickle crawling under the table to fix the wobbly leg. I'd filmed that moment as a window into his anxiety, the compulsion to find order when everything else felt out of control.
They'd scored it to circus music.
The water bottle incident followed. Pickle's voice—I want to be the kind of player people remember for the right reasons—then water hitting his face. They'd looped it three times:The right reasons, the right reasons, the right reasons.
My jaw ached. I'd clenched it through all three loops.
On that day, I steadied him before he fell. In the raw footage, you could see his grateful glance.
They'd cut it. In their version, he just flailed.
The Zamboni sequence. His ritual of checking bolts now scored with cartoon sound effects and a blaring title: PICKLE VS. MACHINERY: AN ONGOING SAGA.
I stood up. Sat back down. The chair complained.
The sideline footage came next. Pickle alone by the glass, hands pressed to his chest. Without context, it looked like a breakdown.
THUNDER BAY'S FAVORITE DISASTER.
His voice again:That I might actually be good enough.
Cut to the team skating away, leaving him behind. It was a drill reset, but with the editing, it looked like abandonment.
Freeze frame: Pickle mid-fall, face caught in comic alarm.
COMING SOON: THE STORM'S SECRET WEAPON: CHAOS.
I watched it three more times. Made myself see precisely what they'd done—stripped away every frame that showed Pickle's hockey IQ, his instincts with Heath, and anything proving he was more than comic relief.
The third time I watched it, I focused on his face. The water bottle moment was marked by real embarrassment but also resilience. They'd cut the recovery and kept only the humiliation.
I closed the laptop. I'd given them everything they needed.
Naomi picked up before the first ring finished.
"I'm out," I said. "That cut is character assassination."
She let me finish. Then: "You signed a work-for-hire contract. The footage belongs to them."
