Seventy-two hours. Three days. It felt like nothing and everything at the same time.
"I'll get you what you need," I said.
"Tonight?"
"Tonight," I said. "I'll tell him tonight."
"Good." Lenny's voice warmed again. "And Adrian? The stuff with him, your guy and the rookie. The mentorship stuff."
"Yeah?"
"That's the documentary. That's the story that matters. Don't let the network convince you otherwise."
He hung up.
I sat there holding the phone, staring at nothing, feeling something unfamiliar settle into my chest. Not hope. Not yet. It was a faint outline of a future where I hadn't ruined everything.
It required one thing.
The truth. All of it. Tonight.
I didn't let myself sit back down. It was a trick I'd learned early in documentary work. The moment you stopped moving, doubt crept in. It whispered reasonable things.
Wait until you have more information. Wait until the timing is better. Wait until you're sure.
Waiting had nearly lost me everything.
I grabbed my jacket from the back of the desk chair. Shrugged it on.
My laptop sat open on the desk, the footage folder still visible from the morning's review. I'd watched it three times since the storage alcove—not the network's cut, but my own raw files. Everything I'd captured over two weeks in Thunder Bay.
Pickle laughing at something Jake said, head thrown back, that full-body joy he couldn't contain.
Pickle on the ice, reading a play two beats before anyone else, his whole body anticipating something that hadn't happened yet.
Tonight, I would show him everything. The network's cut with its cartoon sound effects. The emails pushing for funnier content. The documentation of their pressure tactics.
And then—if he was still willing to listen—I would tell him about Lenny. About the counter-documentary. About the chance to reclaim his story.
I rehearsed it while I checked my pockets for keys.
The network wants to turn you into a meme. I've been fighting them since the second week. I should have told you sooner. I should have told you the moment I realized what they were planning, but I thought I could fix it first. I thought if I could just solve the problem before you had to see how bad it was—
No. That was still an excuse. Still trying to explain my way around the core failure.
I tried again.
I filmed your anxiety and sent it to people who wanted to weaponize it. I didn't understand what I was capturing at first, but once I did, I kept the camera rolling. I told myself it was for the documentary. I told myself I'd protect you in the edit. I was wrong about everything except one thing: I love you. And I should have trusted you with the truth.
Better. Worse. Both.
I caught my reflection in the window—a man in a dark jacket, face drawn with exhaustion. That was appropriate.
The Adrian who'd arrived in Thunder Bay two weeks ago wouldn't have risked his career for a hockey player he barely knew. He protected himself first and called it professionalism.
This Adrian was about to walk into a conversation that could end everything, and he was going anyway.
Pickle had asked for the truth. Had asked multiple times, in multiple ways, with increasing clarity. And every time, I'd given him a partial answer wrapped in reassurance.
