Leadership without speeches.
I'd included the humor, too. Karaoke footage made it in—"Total Eclipse of the Heart" performed with the structural integrity of a collapsing building. The frame was wide. You could see Jake and Evan losing it in the background. The camera caught the joy.
Not "look at this ridiculous person."
What I'd eliminated was manipulation. No leading questions. No footage of Pickle isolated and cut to suggest incompetence. No narrator voice guiding the viewer toward a predetermined conclusion.
The final sequence was practice. Early morning, empty arena. Just the Storm, the ice, and the sound of their voices. They worked through drills—crossovers, tight turns, and the kind of edges that separated good skaters from great ones.
The screen went black.
Silence.
A roomful of applause—full and warm and unselfconscious. Someone whistled. Someone else shouted Pickle's name.
Pickle's hand tightened around mine.
I looked at him. His face was flushed, eyes bright and wet. He blinked hard and laughed a little. "Fuck."
"You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm—" He shook his head. "People aren't laughing at me."
"They never should have been."
"But they were. And I let them." He looked at me. "You didn't."
The lights came up slowly. Juno was wiping her eyes. Jake had his arm around Evan's shoulders.
People started moving. They came to Pickle, not me.
That felt right.
A woman I recognized from the grocery store gently touched his arm. "You helped my grandson. Last year. Youth clinic. He was afraid of the ice."
Pickle's face did something complicated. "Dylan, right? The kid in the documentary with the Gretzky jersey?"
"Yes, that's the one."
"He had good edges. Just needed to trust them."
"He's playing bantam now. Because of you."
Pickle grinned from ear to ear. "That's all him. I just showed up."
More people followed. Juno hugged him, no words needed.
He handled each interaction the same way: slight deflection, genuine gratitude, and no shrinking. He didn't hide. Didn't make it a joke. He stood there and let everyone see him.
Jake stepped up beside me, beer in hand. "You did good."
"You all did the hard part."
"Yeah, but you didn't fuck it up. That's worth something." He took a drink. "You staying?"
It was a question with multiple layers. "Yeah. I am."
"Good. Pickle would be unbearable if you left."
