Naomi (6:45 a.m.):The network loved the bar footage. Pickle’s testing through the roof.
Naomi (6:47 a.m.):We need to talk about direction.
Four texts in six minutes. That was urgent, even for Naomi.
I called her back. She picked up on the first ring. “You’re still in Thunder Bay.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“It’s not morning here. It’s still ass-early. I’ve been up since four because the network scheduled a call, and they don’t understand that some of us have circadian rhythms.” I heard her sip something—coffee, probably. “Tell me you have more footage.”
“I have more footage.”
“Usable footage. Not B-roll of the lake and artsy shots of hockey sticks.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “I’ve been shooting team dynamics. Player interviews. The boyfriend angle is developing. Hog is fascinating.”
“The boyfriend angle is fine. The network likes the boyfriend. But what they really like—” Papers shuffled. “What they really like is the other one. Pickle. He’s testing extremely well. Focus groups loved the bar clips. The Zamboni thing. The part where he crawled under a table to fix a chair leg—they played that three times.”
“He didn’t know I was—”
“That’s what makes it work. It’s authentic. Raw. Relatable chaos.” More paper shuffling. “The word they used was meme-able. Multiple times.”
I crossed to the window. Outside, Thunder Bay was gray and cold, morning light faintly glowing at the horizon. The Sleeping Giant was barely visible through low-hanging clouds.
“What are you asking me to do, Naomi?”
“I’m not asking anything. I’m relaying feedback.” Her voice shifted—still friendly, but with an edge.
“They want more of him. More wipeouts, more fixations, more… Pickle being Pickle.”
“I can’t manufacture that. He’s not a character. He’s a person.”
“He’s also your hook. You know how this works, Adrian.”
I did know.
“I need more time,” I said.
“You’ve already had an extension.”
“I need another one. A few more days. I’m earning their trust—the whole team’s trust. The footage will be better if they stop seeing me as an outsider with a camera.”
Silence. I pictured Naomi at her desk, weighing options, calculating costs.
“How many days?”
“Three. Maybe four.”
“The budget—”
“I’ll cover the difference. Again.”
A sigh. “Fine. But Adrian—send me more footage today. Personality stuff. Give them something to chew on.”
She hung up. I stood at the window, watching the clouds shift over the Giant, and tried to figure out what footage I could send that wouldn’t make me hate myself.
There was a morning practice today. Coach’s sixth sense would know Pickle was out late with me.
