When I arrived at the arena, most of the team was already on the ice. I positioned myself near the boards with my camera ready, trying to focus on the work instead of Naomi’s voice in my head.Meme-able. Multiple times.
The team moved through warm-ups with their usual chaos—Jake chirping Evan about something, and Desrosiers swearing at his stick tape in Quebecois French. Normal. Familiar.
I didn’t focus on them.
I watched Pickle and Heath.
They’d paired off near the far boards, running through a positioning drill. Heath kept overcorrecting—shifting too far left, then overcompensating right, his body fighting itself.
I zoomed in.
Pickle was saying something, gesturing with his stick. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could read his posture—relaxed, patient.
Heath tried the drill again. Failed again. His stick slammed against the ice.
Pickle didn’t flinch. He skated closer, dropping his voice. Whatever he said made Heath pause mid-spiral. I watched the rookie’s shoulders loosen by degrees—not all the way, but enough.
They ran the drill again.
This time, Heath’s feet moved the way they were supposed to. Not perfect, but better. Pickle slammed his stick against the boards in celebration, then immediately checked himself, toning it down. It was apparent that he didn’t want to spook the kid.
I captured all of it. The patience. The adjustment. It was footage of a moment that mattered.
After practice, I sent Naomi a two-minute clip: Pickle anticipating a pass. It shouldn’t have been possible, but he redirected the puck mid-stride and fed Heath for a shot that landed in the net. Skill and mentorship.
Naomi’s response came twenty minutes later.
Naomi:The network reviewed. I’m quoting. This is a sports doc, not a highlight reel. We need personality. Quirk. Relatability. More of the funny stuff.
I stared at the messages until the screen dimmed.
They didn’t want the player who read the ice two moves ahead, or the teammate who noticed someone drowning and threw them a line.
They wanted the meme. Not the man I kissed last night.
That afternoon, I retreated to The Common Thread, claiming a corner table—laptop open, coffee cooling. Naomi’s messages burned a hole in my pocket. I stared at a folder of footage, trying to figure out how to give the network something.
“You’re still here.”
I looked up. Hog stood over me like a flannel-wrapped mountain. He held a to-go cup in one massive hand—something with whipped cream and caramel drizzle. His expression was unreadable.
“Extended assignment,” I said.
“How extended?”
“A few more days.”
He studied me for a moment. Then, without asking, he sat down. The chair creaked under his weight. He took a sip of his drink. Whipped cream caught in his beard.
“Pickle told me about dinner,” he said.
I kept my voice neutral. “Did he?”
“He tells me most things. The big stuff.” Another sip. “He was happy this morning. Distracted. Dropped a few passes. Smiled every time.”
I wasn’t sure if it was an accusation or an observation.
“That’s… good,” I said carefully.
