"Well, good luck with your documentary."
"Thanks."
"And whatever else you're figuring out."
The afternoon dissolved into footage. I shot the streets, storefronts, and the pickup trucks with rust patches and bumper stickers declaring loyalty to the Storm, Canada, or both.
I shot a group of kids playing shinny on an outdoor rink, their voices sharp and bright in the frozen air. I also shot an old man walking a dog that looked like Biscuit's slightly more respectable cousin.
None of it was what Naomi wanted, and none of it was Pickle.
By four o'clock, the light was already failing. I sat in my rental car outside the arena, watching the team trickle out from practice or an optional skate.
Hog emerged first. Rhett met him at the door; their hands gripped each other with the easy practice of people who'd stopped being self-conscious about it.
Evan and Jake came out together. Jake spoke with his entire body while Evan listened with his face. They moved like an integrated unit. Like two people who'd figured out how to comfortably occupy the same space.
I didn't see Pickle.
Good, I told myself.That's good. You don't need to see him.
I started the car and pulled out of the lot.
The Sleeping Giant watched me go, silent and unimpressed.
***
I told myself I wouldn't return to The Drop for another night. Instead, I'd order room service, review footage, and prep for tomorrow's shoot at a Storm game. Told myself the smart thing was keeping my distance.
Snow started falling again around five. By six, it was coming down hard enough to blur the streetlights.
By seven, I was parking outside The Drop, camera bag on my shoulder, telling myself I was doing bonus work.
The lie was a hard sell.
I stayed until The Drop began to wind down.
I'd spent three hours nursing two beers and pretending to review footage on my laptop. The team had cycled through in waves—Jake holding court at the pool table, Evan watching with that quiet intensity that never quite relaxed, and Heath hovering at the edges until Pickle physically dragged him into a conversation about something that involved a lot of hand gestures and at least one impression of Coach Rusk.
I'd filmed maybe twelve minutes total. The rest of the time, I watched.
Him.I watched him.
Not constantly or obviously. Still, I watched how he threw his head back when he laughed. Examined the way he touched people when he talked to them, casual and constant. He froze once when he caught me looking.
We hadn't spoken directly all night.
By eleven, the crowd had thinned. Jake and Evan left first, with Jake's arm slung over Evan's shoulders. Hog followed with Rhett, pausing at my table long enough to nod—not unfriendly, but watchful. Still measuring.
Heath was the last to go. He hovered by the door, looking back at Pickle with the expression of a kid being sent to bed while the adults kept talking.
"Go," Pickle said, waving him off. "Beauty sleep. You need it more than me."
"I don't think that's—"
"Go. I'll see you tomorrow—game day."
Heath went. The door swung shut behind him, letting in a gust of cold air and a swirl of snow.
