Page 110 of Cherry Picking

Augie doesn’t move for a long moment. Then he steps into my space and pulls me into a hug right there in the open hallway.

“Okay,” he mutters against my shoulder. “Okay.”

“I should have told you.”

“Yeah, you definitely should have.” He thumps me on the back and pulls away. “You’re a dipshit. I would have driven you to Vegas myself.”

“It’s a thirty-four-hour drive, Aug.”

“Yeah, well, I would’ve found another way, then.” He retrieves his water bottle from the bench. “Have you discussed any of this with Izzy?”

My brow lifts. “Izzy?”

He pivots and starts walking, jerking his chin for me to keep pace. “Isabelle. Our therapist.”

“Oh, er, I’m overdue for a check-in.”

“Christ, bud. Do I have to make the appointment for you?”

He does not, in fact, make the appointment for me, but he stands at my stall with his arms crossed until I’ve booked one myself for Monday. Then he makes me sit through forty minutes of lunch and tell him the rest of it, all of it, every piece I’ve been sitting on since Halloween. He doesn’t say much. He just eats his sandwich and lets me get it out.

I’m summoned to Bellan’s office at eleven o’clock sharp.

The room is a study in organizational focus—a whiteboard covered in rotations and a single framed photo of his daughters on the desk, positioned for the public. “Sit,” he commands, his gaze anchored to a stack of paperwork. “You’re in the lineup tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

“Fourth line.” He looks up now, his expression unreadable. “You’ll log eight minutes of ice time, and you won’t get a sniff of the power play.”

A few weeks ago, I’d have deployed an argument before he’d even finished the sentence. Today, I’ve got nothing to defend.

“Okay,” I say instead.

Bellan drops his pen, the plastic clattering against the wood. “That’s all?”

“That’s it.”

“Huh.” He leans back, the leather creaking under his weight. “I had a four-minute lecture prepared.”

“You can still deliver it if you want.”

“No, I think I’ll pass.” He studies me for a long moment. “You’ll have to earn the climb back up, Briggs. I’m not being cute. I have a room full of men who watched you make that hit, and they need to see you buy your spot back. Do the work in front of them.”

“Understood.”

“Cardone wants an audience at one.”

I stall halfway out of the chair. “The GM wants me?”

“That’s what I said.” He’s already retreating back into his papers. “Close the door on your way out.”

I text her from the players’ lot at twelve forty, sitting in the rental with the engine idling.

Briggs

back at the rink. the guys are giving me a hell of a time

hope the day is treating you better than the coaching staff is treating me