Page 93 of Cherry Picking

He exhales a long, heavy breath through the line. “Good luck on Friday. Play some good hockey.”

The connection cuts before I can say I love him, and the rest of the day unspools in a blurry rush of damage control.

Ted handles the formal script, and the organization issues a statement that leans heavily on the word private. By midafternoon, I’m cornered by a dozen reporters at the rink. I look them in the eyes and tell them my family life isn’t an asset for public consumption.

Back at the condo, the silence is a physical weight. I sit on the edge of the mattress as the city lights flicker, phone glowing in the dark. I text Evie.

Briggs

it’s a mess today. I’ll call you when the noise settles

The next morning, I spend three hours in a coffee shop downtown just staring at a wall, nursing a black coffee that goes cold before I’ve finished half of it. I considered catching a flight to Vegas just to face my father, but he asked for time, so that’s exactly what I’m going to give him.

Briggs

you still headed to the house? how is he?

Evie

yep, he’s fine

That’s the extent of our dialogue for the day. I have too many rotations to memorize and too much static to drown out. I even skip the session with Isabelle, telling myself I can’t spare the hour when, really, I just can’t spare the honesty.

On Wednesday afternoon, Evie sends me a photo. It’s my father in his recliner, the crossword folded over his knee and his cane hooked on the armrest, glaring at the lens like he knows exactly who’s on the other end of the line.

Evie

he’s letting me make him shepherd’s pie tonight

I stare at the screen for a long, quiet minute. She’s still showing up every day. She’s going into that house, and he’s letting her in, even while he can’t bring himself to hear the sound of my voice.

Briggs

thank you

I don’t sleep a wink on Thursday night. We’re already in New York for the game, and I lie in the hotel dark doing the morbid math on how many millions of people probably read that piece.

I give up at 4:00 a.m. and ride the stationary bike in the empty fitness center until my quads are screaming and my legs feel like lead—a spectacularly bad choice with puck drop twelve hours away.

By warm-ups, my body already feels like it’s failing me.

When the game starts, the Empire come out flying, and we come out like we’re skating through mud. Six minutes in, I’m caught puck-watching instead of moving my feet, and Hartwell has to scramble to cover a defensive rotation that was supposed to be mine.

Bellan doesn’t say a word when I skate to the bench. He just looks down the row at me for two agonizing seconds before turning his eyes back to the ice.

Second shift, I have a wide-open look and miss the net from eight feet out. Third shift, I put a simple breakout pass right into a defenseman’s skate.

Augie taps my shin with his stick. “Hey. Reset, Maxie.”

“I’m fine.”

He sees the lie, but he doesn’t push it.

The Empire go up by two before the first period ends. I spend the intermission staring at a scuff on the floor between my skates while Bellan draws on the whiteboard; I couldn’t repeat a single word that came out of his mouth.

Eight minutes into the second, their defenseman goes back for a puck in the corner with his numbers turned to me. He isn’t even a threat to the play. I have all the time in the world to angle off and just take the puck.

Instead, I put him through the boards.