"I got a call this afternoon. From Lenny Roth, runs a smaller production company out of Toronto. Documentary work, indie circuits. He's my mentor. Not the same reach as the network, but respected."
Pickle's expression didn't change.
"He saw some of the raw footage. The hockey material they rejected. He thinks there's a real story there." I paused. "It's a tight timeline, but he's offering me a chance to put together a counter-doc—something that could compete with the network version."
"And what does that require?"
His voice was still flat, like we were negotiating a contract instead of salvaging wreckage.
"Consent. Yours, explicitly. The raw footage—all of it. And your involvement in editorial decisions."
"My involvement."
"Final cut approval. Nothing gets locked without your sign-off."
Pickle's chin lifted slightly. "What else?"
"Veto rights. Anything you're uncomfortable with—you pull it. No arguments. Your call."
"And the team?"
"What?"
"The other guys. Hog. Jake. Evan. Heath." His jaw tightened. "They're in some of that footage, too. I'm not agreeing to anything that exposes them without their say."
He was negotiating protections for other people before he'd agreed to protect himself.
Of course he was. That was Pickle.
"Same terms," I said. "Anyone who appears gets explicit sign-off."
He processed my statements.
"What does it cost you?"
The question caught me off guard, but I knew the answer.
"My relationship with the network. Permanently. Any future projects through that channel." I kept my voice steady. "Lenny's offer is real, but it's not in the same league. Smaller budgets. Fewer platforms. It's a step back."
"A big one?"
"Big enough."
"You'd be giving that up," he said slowly. "For a documentary that might not even work."
"Yes."
"Why?"
I could give him the strategic answer—leverage, optics, calculated risk.
That wasn't why.
"Because I can't undo what I did, but I can choose what happens next. I'd rather lose the career I had than keep building it on—" I inhaled. "On turning someone I love into meme-able content."
Pickle flinched. Small. Barely visible. The word love landed where it still hurt.
"I'll think about it," he said.
