Page 61 of Cherry Picking

I know she must think I’m a coward and an asshole, and she’s not wrong. I’m pissed at myself, too, because I know it’s the wrong move. It’s just the only one I know how to make right now.

I power the phone down.

At the gate, I pull the headphones on and cue the airport playlist. It’s loud enough to replace thinking. I’m early—hours early, the gate mostly empty, a screen overhead cycling through cities I’m not going to.

Somewhere behind me, a guy says my name. Then again, “Hey, aren’t you—”

I pretend not to hear him.

Two nights later, we take down Tampa 3–2 at home, which buys the dressing room a decent mood. It also means fines court is back in session, because nothing makes this team pettier than points in the bank.

It’s a Kings institution—or a hockey one generally. Every room I’ve been in has had one, just different names for the same purpose. A kangaroo tribunal where guys pay petty cash for crimes against the room. The pool funds the rookie dinner at the end of the season.

We convene in the lounge on New Year’s Eve, after morning skate. Duval stands at the whiteboard in a judge’s robe he bought online, clutching a gavel that’s been confiscated twice already. Hartwell presides from the sofa as the appeals judge.

“First order of business.” Duval smacks the board. “Foster. On Tuesday, you posted your goal on Instagram with the caption ‘they’ll be teaching this one.’”

“They will,” Fozzy says.

“It went in off your shin pad.”

“Off my shin pad on purpose.” The room boos, and he stands to address it, arms spread. “You can’t fine me for confidence.”

“We can fine you for the caption,” Hartwell rules. “Forty bucks.”

Fozzy sits back down, muttering about a rigged judiciary. Duval moves down the list. Ekman gets twenty for wearing sandals in December. Kyo gets ten for calling Bellan “sir” in a media scrum, which Duval argues made the team sound like a military academy.

“I was being respectful,” Kyo protests.

“You were being a narc,” Fozzy says.

“That’s not what a narc is.”

“Appeal denied,” Hartwell says, without looking up.

Duval flips the board over, and the room groans. The back is reserved for the big one. “August Kessler. On the twenty-ninth, you told a reporter that this team, quote, ‘plays with more heart than any group I’ve ever been a part of, and honestly, I love these guys.’”

The lounge erupts. Augie stands and takes a bow.

“That’s a hundred dollars,” Duval says over the noise. “Public sincerity. Aggravated by the word love.”

“I’d say it again,” Augie announces. “I’ll say it right now. I love every man in this room.”

“Two hundred.”

He pulls his wallet and pays cash on the spot to a standing ovation. Kyo takes a picture of him holding the bills over his head, martyred and thrilled. Augie’s tie is crooked, and Fozzy is mid-boo in the frame.

Kyo airdrops it to half the room. I look at the picture in my palm and laugh, alone at my stall. My thumb starts moving before I can weigh the choice. This is the exact kind of weirdness Evie would like.

I send it.

The dots come up fast. My chest lifts on pure reflex, hopeful as a dog at a door.

Evie

don’t text me unless it’s about your dad’s care. thanks.

The lounge keeps going without me. Somebody’s contesting a fine, and Duval’s gavel is banging. I can’t get into it. It’s like watching a room through frosted glass.