Three dots appeared immediately.
Pickle:ok weirdo. but you owe me. I'm timing you.
Adrian:I know. I'll make it up to you.
Pickle:you better. also: I miss your face. that's embarrassing to say but I'm saying it anyway because I'm practicing vulnerability or whatever. Hog says it builds character.
I stared at the words until they blurred.
Adrian:I miss your face too. Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow.
Pickle:tomorrow.
I didn't know how this story would end, but I knew what I wouldn't do. I wouldn't give them what they wanted. I wouldn't let them reduce Pickle to the thing he feared most.
There had to be another way.
Chapter fifteen
Pickle
Nothing caught. Nothing dragged. My skates and the ice had apparently signed a peace treaty without telling me.
When I carved a crossover at center ice, my body did what it was supposed to do—weight transfer smooth and knee bend automatic. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Motion—clean and inevitable.
When the puck came off Desrosiers' stick tape-to-tape, I caught it without looking. Fed it to Jake. Jake one-touched it to Evan. Evan sent it back to me—and I was there, exactly where I needed to be, stick flat and ready.
I launched the shot. Bar down. The crossbar sang.
"PICKLE!" Jake's voice echoed around the rink. "What the fuck was that?"
"Greatness, Jacob. You're witnessing history."
He slammed into me, shoulder-checking me into a spin. I laughed and shoved him back, and somewhere in my peripheral vision, I caught Heath watching from near the blue line. His posture was different from what it had been two weeks ago. Shoulders down. Weight balanced.
I'd done that. Not all of it—Heath had done the physical work—but I'd been there. Said the things he needed to hear.
Getting up when you're down. That's the whole job.
Coach's whistle cut through the noise. "Reset! Donnelly, you're with Piatkowski's line."
Heath skated over, and I watched him settle into position without a death-grip on his stick. He wasn't clenching his jaw anymore.
The drill started. Three-on-two rush.
I fed Heath the puck on the breakout. He caught it—clean, no fumble—and accelerated into the neutral zone. When he drew the defender wide, he found me with a pass that threaded the needle between two sticks.
My shot was instinct. Top corner. In.
Heath's face split into a massive grin. It was something I'd never seen on him before: joy without qualification.
"That's the thing," I said, skating past him. "That's the whole thing, rookie."
Then, it happened.
The tilt. The moment my brain decided that feeling good was a trap.
It started in my chest—a faint hum. My body kept moving and running the drill, but somewhere behind my eyes, a different process began.
