"He says he's handling it." The words nearly caught in my throat. "That's what he keeps telling me."
"And he's shown you what footage already exists? What's already been sent?" She caught herself. "I'm not saying he's lying. I'm saying handling it isn't the same as telling you the full truth."
"What do you think I should do?"
"Ask the questions you've been afraid to ask. Specific ones. Ask what footage exists. Ask what choices have been made about your image without your input."
"And if he doesn't answer?"
"Then you have your answer."
The words were harsh but probably true.
"Thanks, Juno."
"Call me if you need anything. Middle of the night, middle of a game—I'm here." A pause. "And Pickle? You're more than content. Whatever story they're trying to tell—that's not the only story. Don't let them make you forget that."
The call ended.
I sat there, the weight of everything pressing down on me like a physical thing.
Jake stopped pacing. "What did she say?"
I told them. The broad strokes. The rumors. The hockey player being framed as a meme.
By the time I finished, Jake looked like he wanted to put his fist through a wall.
"I'm going to kill him," he said conversationally. "I'm going to kill him, and Evan's going to help me hide the evidence."
"You're not killing anyone," Evan said.
"I'm considering it."
I looked down at my phone. Adrian's last message was probably still sitting there, unanswered.
Please don't walk too far.
I'd stopped walking. I'd stood in that parking lot in the cold, waiting for him to come after me with something real.
He hadn't.
And now this.
Jake grabbed the remote. Paused the TV without comment. The screen froze on a woman mid-sob, mascara streaking down her face, and one hand reaching toward a man already walking away.
Evan didn't say anything.
I didn't cry.
I'd expected to—that hot pressure behind my eyes and the crack in my chest that usually preceded a full Pickle meltdown, with ugly sobbing and snot.
The tears didn't come.
I sat. I breathed. I let the moment be what it was.
Jake's knee bounced once, twice—processing the protective rage he carried on my behalf. Evan's hands had gone still, no longer folding, resting.
They were waiting for me to tell them what I needed.
