Page 31 of Cherry Picking

“I’ve already put out feelers. Chicago and Colorado have both expressed interest if the situation in Charlotte goes south.” He marks them off with two fingers. “You’re an expiring asset on a roster that’s currently scraping for a wild card.”

Why does every person in this industry want to jump the gun? There’s nearly a full calendar left in the season. But that’s Ted. Always three moves ahead on the board, selling the version of me that fetches the highest commission this quarter.

I don’t know what kind of reaction he’s looking for, and I don’t bother offering one. Another city. Another dressing room full of names to memorize, another reserved parking space that doesn’t feel like mine. I’ve built a life here that I actually like, even if we’re not top three.

Ted doesn’t have the ability to process that. He’s sitting across from a man who should be hungry for a Cup, who should be desperate to crawl out of the wild-card muck and into a contender’s jersey. But I can’t find the hunger he requires. Lately, it feels like I’m running on empty.

There haven’t been any more incidents since the terminal. No tingling in the fingertips, no heavy hand on my sternum. Some days I think my brain is coming back online. Other days I think I’m just treading water between the waves.

“Fine,” I grit out. “Options are always a good thing.”

“Exactly right.” He checks his phone, thumbs out a reply. “How’s the leg, by the way?”

I tilt my head. “The leg?”

“The groin thing. From October.”

It was nothing—two weeks, barely missed a practice, hasn’t twinged since. But Ted’s tracking it, because a healthy body prices higher than a hurt one.

“We’re good,” I say, irritated all over again.

“Great.”

Ted works through his branzino while I manage to push mine around the plate.

After he signals for the check, he says, “We’ll touch base once the western swing is finished. Charlotte’s treatin’ you fine for now, but we need to keep the horizon in view.”

The performance has been going for forty minutes, and not once has he mentioned Murphy. No questions about the recovery, the house, or how my father is managing the silence now that my brother is gone. Ted hasn’t forgotten about the stroke or the burial. It’s just that none of those things move a number on a spreadsheet, so they don’t earn a spot on his agenda.

Any other night, I’d have been relieved by the omission. I’m an expert at avoiding the heavy shit myself. But today, the silence sits wrong. Being asked would’ve meant he recognized a man behind the jersey, instead of just the asset he’s trying to price.

I offer a tight nod while he pivots to a lecture about a steak house in Denver I’m apparently obligated to visit.

Ted is top-of-the-line. He’s polished, reliable, and ruthless with a contract. He’s exactly the guy I hired years ago. But we’re on different frequencies now. He’s tuned to the version of me that fetches the highest commission, and I’ve lost the interest required to find him on the dial.

We hit the road for Tampa four days later. The Kings are clinging to a one-goal lead as we bleed into the third, but the game slips through our fingers in the final four minutes—a messy line change and a puck that takes an uncharitable bounce.

Twelve seconds into overtime, their winger cycles out of the corner and roofs one over Duval’s glove.

A loss is a loss, whatever charity point we picked up for reaching the extra period. That point feels like nothing when you played that badly. A couple more nights like this, and we’ll be on the outside looking in come April.

I’m sour on the bus ride back. I pull my hood up and find an old playlist that requires zero effort, tuning out the guys while I pull out my phone.

Evie

your dad yelled a few words at the tv I’m not allowed to repeat

for what it’s worth, I thought you looked especially fast tonight

Briggs

yeah, but I missed one I usually bury

Evie

everybody misses sometimes

Briggs