Page 30 of Cherry Picking

Briggs

it does take a considerable amount of maintenance

Evie

right . . . goodnight, thirteen

Briggs

night, gravedigger

CHAPTER 9

BRIGGS

Ted flies in on a Tuesday to take me to a restaurant called Steak 48.

I’ve been waiting here for twelve minutes. It’s my fault for showing up early, but Ted’s late on top of it, which I know he does to send a message.

When he arrives, I have to watch him work the room first. He shakes hands with a man at the bar, then another at a four-top, then says something to the hostess that makes her laugh. Three stops in forty feet.

Ted finally slides into the opposite side of the booth. “You look good,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Well rested. That break was needed, huh?”

I didn’t take a goddamned break. I missed one game and flew back here on very little sleep. But what the fuck ever. He doesn’t wait for me to respond, anyway.

“How’s Charlotte treating you?” he asks, already flagging the waiter. When she approaches, he barely spares her a glance. “We’ll do the branzino, both of us. And sparkling.”

I don’t especially want the branzino. But I let it go, because arguing with Ted about fish is a waste of my time. He has an agenda, and I’ve known him long enough to recognize the warm-up.

It takes him only one sip of his sparkling water to get to the point.

“So. I want to talk about”—he holds up both hands, spreading them out wide in front of me—“your story.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

He leans in, elbows on the white cloth. “You’ve got one now. A real human story. Everyone’s talking about you—that photo from the service went viral. So we should get ahead of it. One sit-down with the right outlet. You talk about your brother, about coming back and playing through it because it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Grief and grit.”

I stare at him, unblinking. The bread basket blurs at the edge of my vision. I’ve spent every day since the funeral trying not to think about Ziggy, and Ted wants me to do it on camera for leverage.

My ears go hot. On the outside, nothing. What I’d really like is to put Ted’s head through the window to my left. What I do is set my fork down and square it against the plate.

“You want me to do an interview about Zig?”

“I want you to control the narrative.” He spreads his hands, palm side up this time, like he’s offering me something. “This is the most valuable you’ve ever been, contractually. We don’t want to waste it.”

The waiter sets down a bowl of sliced lemons for our San Pellegrino. Beneath the table, my hands have gone still.

“No,” I say forcefully.

“Briggs—”

“I’m not selling that fuckin’ story.”

Ted holds up both palms. He’s known me long enough to know the restraint in my voice is worse than yelling. “Okay, buddy. Let’s put a pin in it,” he says, then pivots without a breath. “How about we talk about a new deal. You ready for that?”

I groan, the pressure behind my ribs easing slightly now that we’ve cleared the topic of Ziggy. “Isn’t it a bit premature to be discussing the deal?”

We’re only in November. There’s still a lifetime of hockey left to play before the ice melts in April.