Page 1 of Cherry Picking

CHAPTER 1

BRIGGS

The Kings won tonight, which is the only reason I’m here at the Brass Tap, a local sports bar in downtown Charlotte.

The stools are sticky vinyl, there are three TVs mounted at bad angles showing three different sports (none of which are hockey), and the bathrooms are down a hallway that someone has tried, unsuccessfully, to patch up with a few strips of duct tape.

But Augie picked this place, and he’s got two assists and a game-winning goal to his name tonight, so he gets to pick the bar. That’s how it works with us. You earn it on the ice; you spend it wherever you want.

I’ve been leaning against this wall for forty minutes. I’ve had two beers by now. I’ve laughed at a few things, shaken hands with people I don’t know, and deflected two separate questions about my contract situation—one from an actual teammate and one from a guy who recognized me at the urinal.

Not a bad performance, all things considered.

“Maxie.” August Kessler, our center and my best friend, appears at my elbow with two more drinks I didn’t ask for. He holds up a glass of whiskey. “You’re not celebrating hard enough.”

I frown. “I’m celebrating exactly the right amount.”

“You’re standing in the corner alone.”

“It’s a damn good corner.”

It is, actually. Good sight lines and nobody’s back is to me.

Down the bar, two of our defensemen are yelling at each other in Swedish. Our backup goalie’s got a woman laughing in the corner, which is rare, so good for him. And Kyo Sato—our rookie, nineteen years old and visibly terrified of everyone—is nursing a Coke at the far end of the bar.

He’s been watching everything with enormous, careful eyes, which makes him a smart kid. That’s exactly what you do your first year. You watch, and you figure out who’s who. It’s best to keep your mouth shut until you’ve earned the right to open it.

The rest of the team is loose and loud. We’re taking up far more space than we’re entitled to, same as always after a win. The bartenders love us. The other patrons absolutely do not.

While Augie and I work through the whiskey, two women peel off from a group by the pool tables, aiming straight for us. One’s wearing a green dress. The other’s wearing a KESSLER jersey.

Augie lights up like he’s been handed a gift. “Ladies.”

“We just had to come say hi,” Jersey Girl says.

“Naturally.” He nods at me. “You know my buddy Maxwell, right? He needs to loosen up a little. He’s very serious tonight.”

“And Augie here is on a rampage,” I say.

He claps me on the shoulder. “Someone’s got to offset your look of chronic constipation.”

I smirk. “It’s resting asshole face.”

Green Dress looks between us. “Are you two always like this?”

“Only when we win,” I say.

“So, often,” Augie adds.

Six years in this league, and I’m still better at pretending to enjoy this than actually having a good time. I’ve done this long enough that the performance barely costs me anything anymore. That’s the trick, I think.

The gap closes, and it’s almost like I actually want to be here, in this sticky-floored bar, with the bass too loud and the tequila overpriced. Where everybody wants a piece of me because I occasionally put a puck in a net.

Tonight, though, I’m restless. It’s that post-game static, a jittery feeling under the skin that arrives after a solid win. My body hasn’t quite figured out how to power down once the skates come off.

The team was good, and so was I. One goal, a clean wrister from the circle and seven shots on net. A great performance, but I’m still not sure it warrants a celebration this loud. And why the itch?

Jersey Girl’s group signals from the pool tables. “We’re moving,” she tells Augie, her voice dragging. “You should track us down later. We’ll be over by the jukebox.”