Page 16 of Cherry Picking

The question catches me off balance. She’s a gravedigger with a fine arts degree; I hadn’t pegged her for a hockey fan.

“You follow the league?”

“I googled you. Late last night.” She offers no apology for it.

“Vegas signed Jake Mercer in the offseason.” If we’re doing honesty, I’ll go all the way. “I wouldn’t wear that jersey if they offered me double what I make now.”

She waits, one brow cocked.

“Mercer was with the Forge. He assaulted a woman at a team party. The organization knew—there was a complaint from a guy on the roster who’d seen it—and they traded the witness to Bakersfield and kept Mercer in the lineup. He’s an Ace now, the woman’s under an NDA, and that’s the version that made it to the press.”

She gasps. “Vegas doesn’t care that he’s a predator?”

The Aces made the calculation they always make. Mercer puts pucks in nets, pucks in nets sell tickets, and the woman signed the check while the witness rode buses in the ECHL for two seasons. Case closed.

I’ve been in this league long enough to know it’s not even the ugliest story. It’s just the one I know for a fact.

“Vegas cares about the stat sheet.”

“Disgusting.” She pauses. “Is that why you’re a southern boy now?”

The corner of my mouth pulls. “Not exactly.”

“Then what is it about Charlotte, besides the lack of predators?”

I turn my cold brew on the table. “It’s the team that wanted me.”

I arrived there as a man holding a spot, and they made me an identity. I’ll always be loyal to that.

She considers this. “Are they any good?”

“We’re solid.”

“But, like.” She tilts her head. “Are you the best?”

“We’re right on the line. Two points out of the playoffs, with sixty games to go.”

“So. Mediocre.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “There are better rosters.”

“Is it a big-fish thing? You’d rather be the star on a middling team than a role player on the best team?”

I stare at her. “Is this a prerequisite for you taking the job?”

“Just a curiosity. It tells you something about a man—whether he’d rather feel important or actually be a winner.”

I don’t offer a response. Partly because I don’t have a clean one. Partly because she’s already looking at me like she’s won the point, and I’m not going to hand it to her. The rest of the math can wait for a version of me that isn’t running on empty.

“Tomorrow,” I say. “Please just show up.”

“I said I would, didn’t I? I don’t leave people hanging. I’m many things, Maxwell, but I’m not that.”

She pushes the door open, satisfied with whatever she’s tallied up, and leaves. When it swings shut, I realize I’ve been leaning forward the entire time, up on the balls of my feet, and I force myself to sit back.

“Bye, then,” I say to the empty chair.

She didn’t say goodbye to me at the cemetery, either. I sit with that strange realization for a minute. Then I finish the lukewarm coffee and go figure out how to tell my father.