"Tell me."
"A counter-documentary. The real story—not the one the network's trying to sell." Lenny's chair creaked again. "The Thunder Bay Storm. The team, the community, the queer hockey angle that's actually interesting, not the cheap-shot viral bullshit they're packaging. We'd need the players on board. Full cooperation. Interviews, access, the works."
"That's—that's what I've been shooting. The footage I kept trying to send them."
"I know. I've seen some of it. The clips you sent me." His voice shifted—softer, more careful. "Including the kid with the Zamboni. The one you're worried about."
Pickle. He meant Pickle.
"He's not a kid," I said. "He's twenty-three. He's a professional athlete. He's—"
"He's the one you're in love with."
Silence.
Lenny didn't push. He never had. That was what made him dangerous—he created space and waited for you to fill it with truth.
"Yes," I said finally. "He's the one I'm in love with."
"Then you understand why this matters. Why we can't half-ass it."
"I understand."
"Good." The chair stopped creaking. Lenny's voice turned professional—still warm, but with edges now. "Here's what I need. The raw footage. Everything you shot, not just the highlights. I need to see what the network has, what they're planning to use, and what we can build a counter-narrative around."
"I can get you that."
"I also need the team's consent. Real consent—not releases signed under pressure, not agreements made without full information. They need to know what they're signing up for. What the network already has. What we're trying to do about it."
My stomach tightened. "That means telling them everything."
"That means telling him everything." Lenny's pause was deliberate. Pointed. "The player. The one in the footage. He needs to know what exists, what's been sent, and what choices have been made about his image without his input. Before he agrees to anything."
I closed my eyes.
Figure out what you're actually willing to tell me.
Pickle's voice in my head. The storage alcove. The fluorescent light flickered while I stood there with my hands in my pockets, shaking too hard to hide it.
Not what you think I can handle. The real thing. All of it.
"Adrian." Lenny's voice pulled me back. "This isn't a rescue mission where you swoop in with a solution, and everyone thanks you for saving the day. This is a collaboration. It only works if everyone involved has agency over their own story."
"I know."
"That means no more solo crusading. Making decisions for people instead of with them."
"That's fair," I said quietly.
"It's not about fair. It's about what works." Lenny exhaled. "You're a good filmmaker, Adrian. One of the best I've trained. But you've always had this thing—this need to control the narrative. To protect people by managing what they know."
I flinched.
"This is your chance to change your approach," Lenny continued. "It requires the one thing you've been avoiding. Full transparency. No more strategic timing. No more waiting for the right moment to deliver the truth."
"What's the timeline?" I asked.
"If we move fast—and I mean fast—we can have a counter-proposal to the network within seventy-two hours. Something compelling enough that releasing their version becomes more trouble than it's worth. But that clock doesn't start until I have footage and consent."
