"Wait," I said. "The dog—"
"Everybody knows Biscuit." He pushed open the door, and the sound hit us like a wave—cheering and music. "Come on, camera guy. You're gonna want footage of this."
And then he was gone, swallowed into the noise and the light, leaving me standing in the doorway with the cold at my back and something unsteady in my chest.
I'd felt it the moment our eyes met. That quick internal stutter, like a camera aperture snapping open too fast.
Not again, I thought.
The dog—Biscuit—trotted past me into the bar, tags jingling.
I followed.
I'm here for three days.
Bodies pressed together in the packed space. Storm jerseys were everywhere. Someone's chair lay overturned. A puddle of beer spread across the floor near the back, and someone lifted a guy in a goalie mask onto his shoulders.
Pickle had already disappeared into the throng, but I could track him by the disturbance he left in his wake. People reached out to high-five him, grab his shoulder, and yell things I couldn't hear over the noise. He moved through the room as if he belonged to it—like the crowd was an extension of his own body.
I found a spot near the wall. Back to the brick, sight lines to the room.
My camera was still in my hand. I raised it without thinking, framing the celebration through the viewfinder. A tall bearded guy—Hog, I assumed, the overtime hero—had someone in a crushing embrace. A woman with blue hair filmed everything on her phone while two men near the bar kissed with the enthusiasm of people who'd forgotten anyone else existed.
Moments I wouldn't have to manufacture.
I took a few shots. The camera felt steady in my hands, familiar, a barrier between me and the chaos that made it manageable.
Then Pickle reappeared.
He'd acquired a drink somewhere—something in a plastic cup sloshing around—and he headed straight for me.
"You're lurking," he announced, stopping close enough that I could smell the cold still clinging to his hoodie. "Documentary guys aren't supposed to lurk."
"I've been here for three minutes."
"Three minutes of lurking." He took a sip of his drink, watching me over the rim. "You missed the good stuff. Hog cried. Actual tears. It was historic."
"I'll catch him next time."
"Bold of you to assume Hog has emotions twice." He grinned. "Come on. I'll introduce you to people."
He grabbed my sleeve again and pulled me toward the crowd. "Fair warning: Jake's going to try to recruit you into karaoke. Say no. He does this thing with 'Don't Stop Believin' that's technically a war crime."
"Noted."
He introduced me to a blur of faces. Jake, who had mischief in his eyes and a possessive hand on the small of his boyfriend's back. Evan, who shook my hand with a grip that felt like an evaluation. Rhett, quieter than expected, thanked me for coming.
Hog was last. Up close, he was bigger than he'd appeared on theShark Tankfootage—and a lot sweatier. He looked at me for a beat too long before extending his hand.
"You're the camera guy."
Not quite a question. Not quite a welcome, either.
Through all of it, Pickle orbited. Never still. Never quiet. Bouncing between conversations, refilling drinks that weren't his, making jokes that landed half the time and didn't seem to bother him when they missed.
I kept watching him.
That was the problem.
