When I finished, a long exhale.
"Okay," he said. "So he fucked up."
"Yeah."
"Big."
"Yeah."
"And he's still there."
"He's still there."
"So the question is whether that's enough."
The wind picked up. I hunched into my jacket. "He decided for me. Like I couldn't handle it. Like I'm—"
"I know what it's not." His voice was calm. "I told him. You don't get to save someone who didn't ask you to. That's not saving. That's just deciding. For them."
Silence.
"What did he say?" I asked.
"He said you would've refused. That you would've demanded a trade before you let him give up his future for your spot."
My jaw tensed. "He's right. I would have."
"Obviously. But that's your call to make."
A bus passed. Air brakes hissing. I waited for more. Pickle had never once in his life stopped at one sentence when three would do, so when he went quiet again I let it happen.
"He's not bad, Heath. He just did the wrong thing for the right reason and that's—" Another crash on his end that he ignored. "That's still wrong. But it's not the same as someone who doesn't care."
I didn't respond.
"You don't get to decide for someone and call it love. But you also don't throw someone away because they got scared and made a bad play." He paused. "We've both seen guys do dumb shit in the third period because they were trying too hard. Doesn't mean they don't belong on the ice."
I exhaled.
"He's still there," Pickle said again.
"Yeah."
"Then decide what you want to do about it."
Something metal hit the floor. Biscuit barked once.
"I gotta go. The sharpener situation has escalated. Hog might cry. I've never seen him cry, and I'm not sure the building can handle it."
"Pickle."
"Yeah."
I searched for the right word. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Thank Pratt. The man's running an entire operation from behind that mask. I want to study him."
"Goodbye, Pickle."
