Page 112 of Cherry Picking

“I’ve spent a long time avoiding setting down roots,” I say. “I’d like to stop doing that.”

Cardone watches me for a long moment. “I’m not about to tip my hand regarding the deadline. I have an organization to run.”

“I understand that. Better than most, honestly.”

“Regardless, that was the first bit of honest dialogue I’ve had about your career in nine years. Find new representation, Briggs. Someone legitimate. I’ll give you three names; just keep my name out of the referral.”

He scrawls on a scrap of paper and slides it across the polished wood. I pocket the list and stand. Once I’m free of the office and into the relative quiet of the stairwell, I take out my phone to text Evie.

Briggs

just told the GM I’m not interested in leaving charlotte. no agent, no leverage. might get shipped out regardless

I wanted you to hear it from me before the ticker gets a hold of the news

I linger on the landing for a minute, but the screen stays dark.

On Friday, Pittsburgh comes into our building, and I log exactly eight minutes of ice time. I’m on for four shifts in the opening frame and three in the second, then I spend the entire third period of a one-goal game anchored to the bench. Kyo buries his second of the year and looks like he might vibrate right out of his gear.

We walk away with a 3–2 win. Duval claims a shutout for the final twenty minutes and informs the room that it counts, and that I contributed nothing to it from where I was sitting.

By the time I clear the garage at the condo, the city is already quiet. I grab a beer from the fridge and collapse onto the sofa, still in my overcoat, and pull up her thread.

Briggs

we won. kyo scored and did a celly that’s going to get him run next week

eight days until the deadline

I’m still right here. wishing you were here, too

CHAPTER 32

EVIE

Afull week is a long time to maintain the silent treatment.

I spent the first two days attributing the distance to a Jameson-induced haze that refused to lift. After the fog cleared, I moved into the next phase—reading every incoming message the instant it hit the screen and making the stubborn choice to ignore them anyway.

By the time Saturday rolled around, it was starting to become a lost cause. Briggs simply refuses to stop reaching out, despite the silence on my end.

Briggs

lost 4-1 in toronto. played like absolute shit.

dad says you left him a “snarky” note. read it to me twice. once for the content, once for the attitude.

A photo arrives on Tuesday with no caption. It’s a sidewalk shot of the golden retriever that lives in his neighborhood. I stare at that dog for four full minutes, my thumb hovering over the screen.

I have a graveyard of eleven drafted replies. I typed out tell kyo the hit was worth it and deleted it. I typed out which note? I write a lot of snark and deleted that, too. Everything feels like too much or not enough.

During my shift, Phil manages to order a casket with a finish I can only describe as “actively aggressive.” I get as far as framing a photo of it to send before I slide the phone away and retreat back into my work.

The next morning, Briggs sends another text.

if you want me to stop, just say the word. I’ll go quiet until I can see you again in person. I want you to know I’m thinking about you, but I don’t want to annoy you

I don’t reply. By midweek, I recognize that’s a response in itself. Briggs is perceptive enough to grasp that I haven’t given him the red light. But I’m greedy for the pings on my screen; I’m just not prepared to answer them yet.