I glanced at Evan, focusing on folding his practice jersey into a perfect square. His ears had gone slightly pink.
"I'm calling you a man with excellent taste."
The pink spread to Evan's neck.
Before I could figure out what to do with Evan's blush and my ridiculous grin, Pickle materialized beside our stalls like someone shot him out of a cannon. His mullet was still damp with sweat, and he clutched his phone like it held the secrets of the universe.
"Okay, but like—serious question." He dropped onto the bench between us, apparently oblivious to the fact that he'd crashed whatever moment was building. "During the rose steal... was it scripted? Or was it, like, emotionally improvised?"
I blinked at him. "What now?"
"The rose ceremony. Episode three. The one where you went down on one knee and basically proposed to that guy Derek while the cameras did that swoopy thing." Pickle's eyes were bright with genuine curiosity. "Because I've watched it likefifteen times, and it either looks completely fake or completely real, and I can't figure out which."
Evan tried to smother a snort. I stared at him.
"You've seen it?"
"Pickle made me watch it. Last week. During his cultural education campaign."
"It was research!" Pickle protested. "I needed to understand the full Vegas mythology before you got here."
I glanced back and forth at them, trying to process the fact that Evan Carter—Mr. Spreadsheet, Lord of Emotional Constipation—had voluntarily watched me make out with strangers in sequins.
"And?"
"And what?"
"What did you think?"
Evan met my gaze. "I thought the editing was obvious."
It shouldn't have mattered, but… hearing Evan say he could see through the bullshit. He'd looked at the most embarrassing moment of my public life and recognized it as a lie—
"So it was real!" Pickle bounced slightly on the bench. "I knew it. You can't fake that level of emotional devastation."
"Thanks, kid. Really building my confidence here." I leaned forward, mock-serious. "But here's the real question, Pickle. You ever see a Zamboni kiss back?"
Pickle's face lit up like I'd delivered the key to the meaning of life. "That's a yes. Real."
"That's a mind your own business before I tell Coach you've been using his office to livestream your hair care routine."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
Pickle grinned and bounced up, apparently satisfied with whatever cosmic truth he'd uncovered. "This conversation never happened."
He wandered off toward the showers, leaving me alone with Evan.
"So, you really watched it?"
"Pickle can be very persuasive when he's determined to educate people."
"And you thought the editing was obvious."
Evan shrugged, pulling his gear bag out of his stall. "Reality TV isn't subtle. Neither are you, usually, but in that scene..." He paused, considering his words. "You looked like someone who was actually feeling something."
He slung his bag over his shoulder and headed toward the exit, leaving me sitting there with my skates half-off and the strangest sensation that Pickle might be an even better chaos agent than me.
