"Somewhere quieter."
I followed him.
We ended up in a storage alcove near the loading dock—spare boards and a broken Gatorade cooler that had been waiting for repair since before I joined the team. The overhead fluorescent was dying, flickering intermittently.
The air smelled like rubber, cold concrete, and Lake Superior—a particular mineral tang that crept into everything in Thunder Bay.
Adrian leaned against the wall. I stayed standing.
"You played incredibly tonight," he said.
"Thanks."
"That assist to Jake—I've watched hockey for fifteen years, and I've never seen anyone read a lane like that."
"Adrian."
He stopped.
"You didn't pull me into a storage closet to tell me I'm good at hockey."
I watched his hands in his pockets, fingers curling and uncurling against the fabric—the same hands that had been inside my jeans this morning. My knees still ached from the hotel carpet. I could still taste him when I thought about it.
My hands wanted something to fix. I counted the tiles on the floor instead. Twelve across. Nine deep. One cracked near Adrian's left foot.
"Something's happening with the documentary," he said. "The network has a direction they want to take—" He exhaled sharply. "I've been fighting them. There's a deadline. Less than twenty-four hours. I'm trying to find another path before—"
"You said that this morning."
"I know."
"You've been saying versions of that for weeks." I crossed my arms to stop them from shaking. "And every time I ask what it means, you give me the same thing. Complications. Choices. Trust me. You never tell me anything real."
"Because I don't have answers yet—"
"Still figuring it out? Still handling it?" My voice rose and turned sharp. "Still deciding what parts of your life I'm allowed to see?"
The fluorescent flickered out. The alcove was dark enough to stop me from reading his expression.
"That's not fair," he said quietly.
"Isn't it?" I stepped closer. "Here's what I know. Phone calls at four in the morning. Five coffee cups. You haven't slept right in days. You look at me sometimes like you're apologizing for something that hasn't happened yet."
"Pickle—"
"I'm not done." I straightened my jacket. "I've asked you directly. Many times. Is something wrong? And every time, you look me in the eyes and say you're handling it."
The fluorescent buzzed back to life.
Adrian's face—pale and drawn, with guilt written across it.
"I've been trying to protect you," he said.
"From what?"
His mouth opened and closed, but he said nothing. His hands came out of his pockets, shaking badly enough that he couldn't hide it anymore.
I started trembling too. I stared at the cracked tile and counted to four. "That's the thing. You keep saying protection. I'm standing right here, and I have no idea what I need protecting from. I don't know what the network wants. I don't know what the deadline is for. I don't know what choices you're making or how they involve me."
