I watched the way his hands moved when he talked—expressive, uncontrolled, nearly knocking over a beer at one point. I watched him light up when someone laughed at his jokes. I couldn't look away when he crouched down to greet Biscuit, ruffling the mutt's ridiculous ears with tenderness.
Stop, I told myself.He's not your subject. He's a hockey player at a bar, and you're here to do a specific job.
I raised my camera again. Took a few more shots of the crowd, jerseys, and joy. Professional. Detached.
Somehow, the camera kept finding its way back to Pickle.
A shot of him mid-laugh, head thrown back.
A shot of him listening to something Hog said, face uncharacteristically serious.
A shot of him alone for a moment in the crowd.
I stared at it in the viewfinder. The grin was gone, and something young and uncertain shone from underneath.
I deleted it.
Keeping it would have been an admission.
When I looked up, Hog was watching me.
Not Pickle. Me.
His expression wasn't hostile. Just aware. The look of a man who'd noticed precisely which direction my lens kept pointing.
He didn't say anything. Raised his beer an inch in something that wasn't quite a toast.
Message received.
I had the kind of problem I'd sworn I wouldn't have again—the blur between work and want, how a lens could become an excuse to look too long. I'd done it before, and I knew how it ended.
Pickle caught my eye from across the room. Raised his plastic cup in a toast. Mouthed something I couldn't make out and turned back to his conversation.
I made my way toward the door. The cold outside would clear my head.
At the threshold, I stopped. Looked back.
Pickle was in the middle of the room, gesturing wildly at something, and Jake doubled over laughing beside him. The bar's terrible lighting caught the snow still melting in his hair, and he looked ridiculous and radiant.
I'd been working on documentaries long enough to know how stories started. Not with events, but with feelings. The prickle at the back of your neck that said something's here.
This one felt like that.
It was dangerous.
I walked out into the cold and told myself I wouldn't think about Pickle until morning.
I was wrong.
Chapter three
Pickle
The problem with telling yourself to act normal is that you suddenly forget what normal looks like.
I'd been awake since 5:47 a.m., staring at my ceiling, running through possible versions of today's practice. Version one: I walked into the rink like a functioning adult and nodded casually at Adrian. Version two: I burst into flames upon eye contact, and the fire department had to be called.
Either one could happen.
