“I miss you,” I said. The three words just jumped out. “That’s stupid, because it’s only been like eighteen hours, but my brain keeps doing this thing where it—”
The call dropped.
My phone buzzed.
Adrian:I miss you too. Wi-Fi’s fault, not mine. Get some sleep. You’ve got a game to win.
***
The puck dropped, and my brain didn’t.
That was the first thing I noticed. Usually, a flood of thoughts joined the opening faceoff—warnings about what not to do, and a highlight reel of every mistake I’d ever made playing on loop behind my eyes.
Tonight: nothing.
Only the scrape of blades, cold bite of the arena air, and thwack of stick on puck. I didn’t have to think about how to move. My body knew, and I let it do its thing.
A pass came tape-to-tape. I caught it, scanned the ice, and saw Desrosiers breaking toward the net. Sent it. He buried it top corner. First shift. First assist.
I waited for the crash.
By the third period, I had two assists and a plus-three. No penalties. No turnovers. Coach Rusk watched me climb over the boards with a tiny little smile on his face. He didn’t say anything.
After the final buzzer, I sat in my stall staring at my hands. They weren’t shaking. Usually, after a game, my whole body vibrated like a tuning fork.
I only felt tired. The good kind.
Adrian:Saw the box score. Two assists, plus-three. That’s a hell of a game.
Pickle:it felt different. like my brain finally shut up long enough for my body to do its job.
Adrian:Maybe your brain’s learning to trust your body.
I read that sentence three times.
Pickle:maybe. or maybe Kalamazoo’s just bad at hockey.
Adrian:Take the win, Pickle.
The second game was in Toledo. The puck popped loose in the neutral zone—one of those chaotic bounces where the universe decides to play favorites.
I was its choice. Suddenly, there was nothing between the goalie and me but sixty feet of fresh ice.
Old Pickle would have panicked. Would have started the internal broadcast: Too fast. Wrong angle. Everyone’s watching. You’re going to screw this up. New Pickle heard something else.
There he is.
It was Adrian’s voice. Quiet. Certain. Waiting. I didn’t think. I just was.
My legs pumped. The goalie came out to challenge me, cutting the angle and making himself big—textbook stuff that worked against players who hesitated. I didn’t hesitate.
The shot came from somewhere deeper than my brain. Wrist, not slap. Quick release. Bar down.
The crossbar sang—that perfect metallic ping that meant in, yes, and you did the thing, and the thing worked.
The boys hit me like a wheelbarrow of bricks. Someone’s elbow caught my helmet. Someone else screamed in my ear. We were a big pile of sweaty joy, with limbs tangled and sticks clattering.
This joy was different from other times. Quieter. Deeper. Less like fireworks and more like a fire in a hearth.
