"I have emails," I continued. "Every request you forwarded. Every note pushing for more chaos. I have timestamps showing the pattern. I have a twenty-one-page document connecting all of it, with three backup copies in three locations. And I have contacts at two publications that cover media ethics."
The pen clicked again. Once. Twice.
"You're threatening me," Naomi said.
"I'm telling you what happens next. If the network releases that cut—the one with the circus music—I burn it all down. My career. My reputation. Whatever bridges I have left. I hand everything to the press and let them tell the story of how a streaming network exploited a minor-league hockey player for engagement metrics."
"That's dramatic."
"It's accurate."
She was quiet. I listened to the silence and tried to read it. Naomi had been my producer for eight years. I knew her tells—how she muted herself when she was calculating and dropped her voice half a register when she'd made a decision.
"Adrian." Her voice dropped. "You understand what you're doing. You'd destroy your career over this."
"Yes."
"Over a hockey player you've known for a few weeks."
I heard what she wasn't saying—my relationship with Pickle was an infatuation, and I'd lost perspective. I was talking about torching my professional life for a twenty-three-year-old I'd met in a parking lot.
She wasn't entirely wrong.
"I'm doing the right thing," I said. "For once."
The words came out soft but certain.
Naomi exhaled. "You know I don't make these decisions. The network has the final cut. Even if I wanted to help—"
"You can help me. Tell them what I have. Make them understand that releasing that cut comes with consequences. Buy me time to find another path."
"Another path to what?"
"To tell this story the right way. With consent. With context. With the version of Pickle that's actually true."
She was quiet. I pictured her at her desk—sticky notes and a photo of her daughter at graduation. Naomi wasn't a villain. She was a professional inside a system that rewarded the kind of exploitation I was trying to stop.
"You really believe in this," she said finally.
"I believe in him."
"I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you." I exhaled.
"Don't thank me yet," she said. "The network wants viral content. Your hockey player tests well. That matters more to them than your threats." A pause. "But I'll make some calls. See if there's room to negotiate."
I sat on the edge of the bed and gripped the mattress.
"Adrian." Her voice sharpened. "You need to tell him. Whatever you're planning—he needs to know. Before any of this goes further."
"I know."
"Do you? From where I'm sitting, you've spent the past week trying to fix this without letting him in the room. That's not protection. That's—"
"Control." Pickle's word fell out. "I know what it is."
"For what it's worth, I've watched your footage. The mentorship clips. The hockey sequences. It's good work. Some of the best you've done. He's lucky to have someone willing to go to war for him."
