"You're in his head right now," Hog said. "Taking up space. Making noise."
"I don't want to be noise."
"Then be signal," Evan said. "Be clear. Be consistent. Be worth the risk."
I nodded. "I'm trying."
"Try harder," Jake said. A flat request, not edgy.
I looked at each of them. They were Pickle's people. The ones who'd be there long after I was gone if I fucked this up again.
"Thank you for protecting him."
Hog's expression didn't change. "Always will."
I turned to leave.
"Hey, documentary man," Jake called. "The Thai place next door? Get the pad see ew. You look like you haven't eaten a vegetable in a week."
I chuckled softly. "Someone already gave me that advice."
Jake's grin was sharp. "Yeah. I know."
***
The following morning, I walked into the arena with nothing in my hands.
No camera and no audio recorder.
The Storm were already on the ice for a practice session. I climbed to mid-level seating and sat three rows up.
Pickle was working with Heath near the far blue line. I watched without the instinct to zoom or adjust exposure.
His edges were clean. His hands moved when he explained—quick, expressive, painting the play in the air. He put his hand on Heath's shoulder, adjusted his stance slightly, and stepped back.
Heath tried again. Better.
Pickle's face lit up. He smacked Heath's helmet—affectionate, approving—and they both laughed.
Ninety seconds. Precise. Patient.
Practice continued. Coach ran drills.
Pickle skated to the bench for water. His face was flushed—bright pink across his cheekbones, spreading down his neck. His hair was dark with sweat, curling at the temples.
He squirted water, missed slightly. It dripped down his chin.
He scanned the ice and found Heath struggling again. Dropped his water bottle and vaulted back over the boards—all momentum, pure Pickle energy—and skated straight to Heath.
More instruction. Heath got it right.
Pickle threw both arms up like Heath had won the Stanley Cup.
That was the kind of moment the network tried to delete. Pickle showing up without being asked and celebrating other people's wins.
He was a leader, and underneath my professional observation, I wanted him.
Wanted to see that smile directed at me again. Wanted those quick hands on my skin instead of painting plays in cold air.Wanted to see that flush spreading lower, knowing I was the reason for it.
