He stood by the boards near center ice, camera lowered, scrolling through images. He was doing whatever documentary people did when they weren't actively making you worry about every move.
I pulled at a lace—slowly.
This is creepy, the rational part of my brain observed.You're watching him like a stalker who's bad at stalking.
I kept watching anyway.
And then Hog walked back out.
He'd already been in the locker room, but now he was crossing the rubber mats toward the ice with purpose in his stride.
Toward Adrian.
My fingers froze on my laces.
They spoke.
I couldn't hear the words. It was only a low murmur of voices, but I watched it all.
Hog's head tilted toward me. Adrian's gaze followed.
For one terrifying moment, he looked directly at me.
I dropped my eyes to my laces. Yanked at one so hard the knot tightened instead of loosening.
When I risked another glance, they were still talking. Hog's arms had crossed over his chest—not aggressive, but firm. It was the stance of a man saying something important and making sure it landed.
Adrian said something back. Short. His body language was careful, almost formal.
Hog studied him for a long moment.
Then he said something else—just a few words—and the air between them changed. Whatever Hog had said, it wasn't small talk about camera angles.
It was a warning.
I knew it the way I knew when a hit was coming on the ice.
Adrian nodded. Once. Tight.
Hog turned and walked back toward the tunnel, passing me on the bench without a word. He rested a heavy hand on my right shoulder—brief, warm, there and gone.
I watched him disappear into the locker room.
When I looked back at Adrian, he was watching me.
Not filming. Looking. His camera hung at his side, forgotten.
We stared at each other across the empty ice.
Adrian looked away first.
He gathered his equipment and headed for the exit without glancing back. His footsteps echoed in the empty rink—steady, measured, retreating.
I sat on the bench for a long time after he was gone.
The locker room was half-empty by the time I made it inside. I dropped onto the bench and started stripping off gear, piece by piece, until I was just a sweaty guy in compression shorts surrounded by hockey gear.
Hog sat on the bench beside me, showered and dressed, smelling like the pine soap he bulk-ordered.
