"Yeah?"
"Yeah. We'll see how it goes."
I heard the possibility.
"Okay."
He started to turn and then turned back.
"Hey, Adrian? The pad see ew thing? That was Jake's idea. He was there when I was talking to you. He made me tell you to eat our vegetables."
A grin started again. "He made you?"
"He whispered in my ear—and I quote—'if documentary man dies of malnutrition before he fixes his shit, I'm blaming you.'"
I laughed.
Pickle smiled.
"Don't get used to people taking care of you. This is probationary caretaking."
"Understood."
"Good."
This time, when he turned, he actually went.
I watched him walk toward Rhett's truck—bag bouncing, Crocs bright against the asphalt, shoulders squared.
He didn't look back.
Chapter twenty-five
Pickle
The week after the parking lot happened around me like weather—inevitable, unchangeable, something I moved through without trying to control.
Monday practice: I showed up on time, tied my skates without disaster, and did the drills without turning them into performance art. Heath fumbled a pass in the neutral zone. I skated over. "Watch Desrosiers' stick. He telegraphs before he shoots."
Heath blinked like I'd spoken Mandarin, then nodded. Next drill, he read it. Intercepted clean.
Coach blew the whistle. "Piatkowski. Good eye."
I didn't make a thing of it. Just tapped Heath's shin pads and kept moving.
That night, Adrian texted:Counter-proposal submitted. Will update when I know more.
I sent back a thumbs-up. Nothing else.
Tuesday: We played Sault Ste. Marie at home. We packed the arena—standing room only. The smell of cheap hot dogs andspilled beer was thick in the air. The ice was fast, and my legs felt good.
Second period, three minutes in, Hog took a shot from the point. Their goalie got a piece, but the rebound kicked out to the side. I saw it coming before it happened—measured the angle, spotted their defenseman turning wrong, and the puck dropped exactly where I needed to be.
I crashed the crease. Someone's elbow caught me in the ribs—sharp, immediate pain—but I stayed upright. Got my stick on the puck and jammed it past the goalie's pad.
The horn blared. Our fans erupted.
I skated back to the bench, and Jake grabbed my helmet, shaking it hard enough to rattle my brain. The hit to my ribs throbbed, but the good kind of pain. The kind that meant I'd earned something.
