Page 113 of Cherry Picking

Briggs

beat tampa. bergie took a puck to the jaw and lost a tooth he claims he wasn’t using anyway

back on the second line. don’t get too excited, fozzy just has the flu

woman at the coffee place decided i’m “going through something.” free muffin. decided not to correct the narrative

montreal tomorrow. dad says he’s watching with the mute on because the color guy never played a shift in his life

Thirteen days after our fight, I still haven’t given him anything, which is a rich position for a woman who once yelled at him about poor communication.

Murphy summoned me at nine sharp, which cost me a morning of paperwork at Sutton’s and a great deal of patience. He didn’t offer a reason, but then again, he didn’t have to. The text from Briggs explained it well enough.

Briggs

deadline day. if a move happens you’ll see the news before I can tell you. I hated the way that went last time. whatever happens, I didn’t ask for it

Murphy’s anchored in the recliner, the TV already tuned to the network that’s been dissecting rosters since sunrise.

“That’s just the channel it was on,” he grumbles, barely waiting for me to close the door.

“Sure it is, Murph. You’re about as subtle as a hearse. Just admit you wanted the company while the suits decide your son’s future.”

“Plumber is due,” he insists. “That’s all.”

“Mmhmm.”

He has a crossword propped on his knee and his cane hooked over the armrest. On the screen, four men in expensive suits occupy a desk labeled TRADE CENTER. A ticker bleeds across the bottom, a slow crawl of names and logos.

I work to occupy my hands and stay clear of my own head.

By nine thirty, I’ve organized his pills, sanitized a counter that was already spotless, and rearranged the mug shelf—an act of domestic aggression he catches before I even finish the top row.

“The mugs were fine.”

“The mugs were a disaster, Murphy. You had a coffee cup living with the measuring spoons. It was anarchy.”

“That’s where he wanted to be.”

“Well, he’s been evicted.”

“Gonna have to tell me the new address, then.” He hasn’t put pen to paper in forty minutes. “I’m a man with a weak side, Evie. I can’t be out here hunting for a handle.”

The ticker continues its parade. A defenseman I’ve never heard of gets shipped across the border, and the talking heads have a great deal of professional curiosity about the return. I catch myself scanning the names for a thirteen that refuses to arrive.

At eleven, Murphy declines a sandwich, so I make him one anyway, and we endure another hour of the cycle. He feeds me clues out loud and gets a date wrong on purpose just to see if I’m actually listening.

“Seven letters. Street in old Vegas.”

“Fremont.”

“Hm.” He scribbles. “Duh.”

At eleven forty, one of the talking heads mentions interest building in Charlotte, and Murphy’s hand freezes mid-clue. Neither of us moves for nine agonizing seconds, the air thick with the possibility of Briggs being booted, until the broadcast pivots to a backup goalie in Boston.

“Well,” Murphy says finally, the breath leaving him in a long, heavy rush.

“Yeah.”