Page 111 of Cherry Picking

I watch the screen for several minutes, waiting for the dots that never arrive. When it stays dark, I shove the phone into my pocket and head back inside.

Gio Cardone has occupied the GM chair for nine years, and our interaction history consists of maybe six conversations, all of them conducted in transit. His office sits on the third floor, dominated by a window that offers a clinical view of the practice rink below.

“Briggs.” He offers a firm hand and gestures toward a guest chair. “How’s Murphy?”

“He’s alright. Thanks for asking.”

“I lost mine four years ago.” He sinks into his seat. “It never quite gets to be okay, I suppose. It just gets further away.”

We trade another minute of empty dialogue—weather, travel schedules, the state of the locker room coffee. Then he clears his throat, and the pleasantries end.

“So, I have a question,” he says. “I’d like the honest version, because I’ve been hearing your agent’s script since the fall.”

“Ask it.”

“Do you want to be here?”

I don’t have a workshopped response ready, mostly because I’d braced myself for something more corporate. The bluntness catches me off balance.

“Because from where I’m sitting,” Cardone continues, “your camp has been exploring your options for months. Then I open my phone last week to a story about a Las Vegas homecoming. It’s a hell of a coincidence, Briggs.”

“I didn’t know about the Vegas story until it broke.”

“You didn’t know your agent was shopping your services?”

“I knew he was doing his job. I didn’t know about Vegas until Saturday.” I plant my hands flat on my knees. “I fired him Saturday afternoon.”

Cardone’s eyebrows climb a half inch. On him, that’s a standing ovation.

“You fired Ted Vasquez.”

“I did.”

“In February. Of a contract year.”

“In a Del Taco parking lot,” I say. “It wasn’t my most polished performance.”

He lets out a short, real laugh that evaporates before it can reach his eyes.

“Alright.” He turns a silver pen over on the mahogany. “Let me tell you where we are. The deadline is arriving. I’ve had three serious inquiries about you since the suspension landed. You’re on an expiring deal, and we’re clutching a wild-card spot by a single thread. The smart move is to move you next week for picks, because otherwise I lose the asset for nothing on July first.”

“I know the business, Gio.”

“Then you know I’d just be doing my job.”

“You would.”

He waits, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.

“I don’t have an agent,” I say. “I can’t negotiate, and I’m aware of that. But for what it’s worth, I want to stay in Charlotte. I’m not going to shop around, and I’m not having anyone do it for me. When I find new representation, you’ll hear from them, but I’m not chasing the highest bidder. I’d like to be here.”

“You understand what you just did,” he says flatly.

“Yeah.”

“You gave away every ounce of leverage you possessed. In a contract year. Sitting across from the man who signs the checks.” He shakes his head slowly. “That’s the worst business decision I’ve seen a player make in nine years.”

I think about how to frame it. There isn’t a clever deflection left in the tank, so I go with the truth.