“Is it?”
Hog stared at me, and his eyes didn’t waver.
“I’m going to ask you something,” he said. “And I’d appreciate a straight answer. Not a documentary answer. The truth.”
I closed my laptop. “Okay.”
“What’s this documentary actually about?”
I opened my mouth to respond. Nothing came out.
Hog saw it—the hesitation. His jaw tightened.
“That’s what I thought,” he said.
“It’s not—” I started. Stopped. Found my footing. “The network has certain expectations. I don’t agree with all of them.”
“What kind of expectations?”
“They want entertainment. Clips that go viral. They want—”
“They want Pickle to be a joke.”
“That’s not what I want. I’ve been fighting them on the angle since I got here. Every piece of footage I send that shows him as a real player gets rejected. Every time I try to—”
“But you keep sending footage.”
“If I don’t, they’ll replace me with someone who will. Someone who doesn’t—” I stopped myself.
Hog leaned forward. “Someone who doesn’t what?”
Someone who doesn’t care about him.I didn’t say it out loud.
“Someone who won’t push back,” I said instead. “Someone who’ll give them what they want without asking questions.”
Hog was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was different—heavier and more personal.
“Let me tell you something about Pickle. He showed up in Thunder Bay two years ago, and he was a mess. Talented, yeah. Fast as hell. But he was so scared of being sent back down that he couldn’t sleep. He’d come to practice with his hands shaking because his brain had convinced him that every shift was an audition.”
I thought about the footage. Pickle by the boards, rubbing his chest. The Zamboni blade. The napkin holders.
“It took a year for him to believe he belonged here,” Hog continued. “A full year of Jake and Evan and me telling him he wasn’t going anywhere. It’s not all gone—he still waits for the other shoe.”
The coffee shop hummed around us. Someone’s laughter drifted from the counter.
“He lets people in,” Hog said. “He can’t help it. He gives everything—every joke and every piece of himself—hopingthey’ll stay.” His eyes held mine without blinking. “And when they don’t… it breaks something in him. Every time.”
“What do you want me to do?” Frustration cracked my voice. “Walk away? Let someone else take over? I can do that. I can tell Naomi I’m done, and by next week there’ll be a new camera in this town, pointed at him, held by someone who doesn’t give a damn about anything except getting the shot.”
Hog didn’t flinch. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s reality. The footage exists. The network wants what it wants. The only question is who shapes the final product.” I breathed out. “I’m trying to protect him. That’s the truth. I don’t know if I can, but I’m trying.”
Silence stretched between us—heavy, but not hostile.
Finally, Hog stood.
“Figure out whose side you’re on,” he said. “Before someone gets hurt.”
