This is too good.
I caught another pass. Fed it to Jake. He scored. The team cheered.
This is the part of the movie right before everything goes wrong.
I nearly laughed. I could picture it: the protagonist standing on the ice, finally happy—and then the camera pulls back, and the music shifts, and the audience sees what he doesn't.
The shark.
There was always a shark.
"Pickle." Coach's voice, sharp. "You're drifting."
I snapped back. Looked down. My feet had carried me to the wrong side of the formation, and I was standing alone near the boards like a lost tourist.
"Sorry, Coach. Had a spiritual experience. I'm back."
"Save the meditation for after practice."
I skated back into position. Jake shot me a look—you okay?—and I waved it off with a grin.
Fine. I was fine. Better than fine. Seven points in four games. Plus-eight. Heath looking like a real hockey player. Adrian waiting for me with his camera-less smile. Everything was clicking. Everything was good.
The drill resumed. I caught the puck and moved it and pretended the hum in my chest wasn't getting louder.
After practice, Adrian waited by his rental car.
No equipment. He leaned against the driver's side door with his hands in his jacket pockets, watching me cross the parking lot.
"You're lurking," I said, stopping two feet away. I was close enough to catch his soap smell—clean, adult, slightly woodsy. "Possibly stalking."
"I'm waiting. There's a difference."
His mouth curved into that small, private smile I'd started thinking of as mine.
"How was practice?"
"Transcendent. Legendary. I scored four goals and invented a new kind of crossover. They're naming it after me. The Piatkowski Pivot."
"That's not a thing."
"It could be a thing. I'm a visionary."
Adrian reached out, and his fingers brushed the sleeve of my jacket. It was a point of contact that saidI'm here, I'm real, this is happening.
"Come on," he said. "I'll drive you home."
I got in the car.
The heat was already running. Adrian had turned it on before I got there, which meant he'd been waiting long enough to think about my comfort, which meant—
Stop. Stop turning everything into evidence. Just be here.
We pulled out of the lot. The streets of Thunder Bay scrolled past the window—familiar storefronts and familiar ice patches. Adrian reached out to touch my knee. His hand settled there, warm through my jeans.
It was good, so good—but why was he checking his phone at every red light?
The first time, I barely noticed. The second time, it was obvious—looking down and to the right for a quick glance at the screen.
