Page 73 of Cherry Picking

“There’s this woman. From New Year’s.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “She’s still texting me. Like, aggressively sexy shit. And I’m answering because I’m a man with a pulse, but it’s bordering on a chore.”

“So tell her that.”

“What, should we set a rotation? Like, tits on Tuesdays, ass shots on Thursdays? Because when we’re in the middle of a road swing—”

“Augie.”

“I’m serious. It’s a high-maintenance situation.” He holds up his palms. “That’s why I’m bringing it to the committee.”

“The committee thinks you should block her if you’re not actually interested.” I squint at him, unconvinced. “Didn’t you just tell me your texts were boring?”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, “boring is a sliding scale.”

We both crack up, the sound cutting through the low trill of the tires. It’s loud enough that Kyo pivots in his seat, his eyes wide and careful as he tries to locate the joke. I wave the kid off.

When we hit the freeway and the bus finally settles, I pull my hoodie up and stare at the passing lights.

My mind drifts back to last night—the way Evie looked at me when she suggested I talk to someone. Not a trainer or a coach, but a professional for the heavy shit. The betrayal and the burial and the two years of holding my breath.

It’s a terrifying thought—letting a complete stranger examine the parts of me that aren’t meant for a scoreboard.

“You ever see a therapist?” I ask, keeping my voice low enough that it won’t travel.

“Isabelle,” Augie replies without missing a beat. “Had her since my draft year. She’s exceptional.”

“Really?”

“Don’t look so shocked, Briggs. It’s how I stay this well-adjusted.” He tilts his head, studying my face. “Oh wait, was that a request? You want her number?”

“Yeah, actually. Does she do telehealth?”

“Fuck yeah she does. Half her clients are athletes.” He’s already typing, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. “Sent. Tell her I referred you so she lowers my rates.”

The bus pulls into the private terminal twenty minutes later. We file off with our bags, through security, and onto the plane in the usual choreographed chaos. Somebody has already lost a charger. Somebody else is scarfing down something that smells like eggs.

By the time I get to my row, Augie is already trying to steal the window.

“You have your own seat,” I tell him.

“I like yours better.”

“Move.”

He begrudgingly retreats to the spot across the aisle. The other guys are settling into their familiar order—Hartwell up front with the coaches, Duval and Fozzy already arguing about something, Kyo three rows back with his hood up.

“Six letters,” Augie says to me over the safety demonstration. “Away from home.”

“Hotel,” I reply.

“That’s five.”

“Vegas,” I say, annoyed.

“Also five, and also not how crosswords work.” He fills in something else entirely. “It’s afield.”

My eyes narrow. “Why’d you ask if you know the answer?”

“I like watching you get things wrong.”