Sarah was quiet.
"There might be," she said finally. "It's ugly, and it's risky, but we should talk in person if that's possible." A pause. "Ask yourself one question: If you do nothing, and the worst happens,can you live with it? If the answer is no, you already know what you have to do. The rest is logistics."
The call ended.
I sat with my cold coffee and let a wave of doubt wash over me. It might be too late. Lenny might watch the footage and decide it wasn't worth the risk. Sarah's third option might collapse under legal reality.
Still, underneath the doubt, something else was there. Quieter. Steadier. It was the conviction that doing nothing was worse than doing something that might fail.
I pulled up my email and typed:Lenny. Footage attached. Watch the mentorship scenes first. Then the scrimmage interception. Then decide if there's a story worth fighting for.
I hit send and drove back to the rink.
Practice was over. I expected the parking lot to be empty. Instead, a handful of vehicles clustered near the side entrance.
I didn't get out.
The afternoon light had gone flat and gray, but inside the arena, Pickle was still on the ice.
I knew it without seeing it. I felt it in my bones.
The side entrance door opened.
Players filtered out. Jake and Evan, shoulders brushing. Hog checking his phone. The equipment manager with a cart of pucks.
No Pickle.
A minute later, the door opened again.
Pickle appeared with Heath beside him, both talking. I couldn't hear the words, but I read their bodies—Pickle's hands moving as he explained something, Heath nodding as he took mental notes.
They stopped near the entrance. Pickle clapped Heath on the shoulder. Heath said something that made Pickle throw his head back and laugh.
He looked happy. He was a twenty-three-year-old standing in a parking lot after practice, laughing at something a teammate said, completely unaware that in less than two days his worst fear might become reality.
Heath headed toward his car. Pickle watched him go and then turned—scanning the lot.
He was looking for me.
I'd parked at the far end, half-hidden behind the equipment van. From there, I could see him, but he'd have to really look to spot my rental.
He didn't. He frowned. Checked his phone.
Mine buzzed in response.
I didn't look at it.
I watched him stand there, phone in hand, waiting for an answer I wasn't ready to give. He shoved the phone in his pocket and started walking toward the main road.
He always walked.Cold builds character, his mother said.
I could have driven him home, kissed him in his kitchen, and pretended everything was fine. Instead, I sat in the parking lot and watched him walk away—shoulders hunched against the cold, breath fogging, getting smaller with every step until he disappeared.
I picked up my phone. A message glowed on the screen.
Pickle:hey. saw your car was gone after practice. everything ok? want to come over later? I have leftover Thai and approximately nine thousand stories about Heath's face when he realized he could actually do the thing.
Adrian:Got caught up with some calls. Rain check on tonight—early morning tomorrow. I want to hear every single story from the road.
