Page 3 of Cherry Picking

“Because it’s Friday night in downtown Charlotte, and we’re young and rich.”

“I’ll do the shot right now if it buys me ten minutes of silence,” I say.

He huffs, shaking his head. “Just humor me, for God’s sake.”

“Augie,” I say, “go find someone else to bother.”

He drifts off with a laugh, already shifting into his performance as he approaches the woman.

I take a long pull of my beer, watching the team occupy the room. Three years as a King. Before that, two years in Tampa, one in Ottawa, and a long stretch of riding buses in the AHL while I waited for a door to open.

It’s taken six years to build a life that feels entirely my own. I’ve gotten good at this—the professional version of me is a polished, reliable machine. It’s likely why the prospect of being the new guy again feels more like a chore than an opportunity.

Across the bar, Augie gets his laugh, and my phone buzzes against my hip.

I pull it out, bracing for a wall of messages from the team chat or a lecture from my agent. Ted usually calls after a win to talk about market value and brand management. Or, worse, to remind me that I should be posting more on Instagram, something I’ll never do.

But the name on the screen is Danny Reyes.

My stomach drops, a cold weight settling behind my ribs. Danny is my father’s oldest friend. I spent my childhood in his neighborhood, dodging the sun-bleached pavement on my bike and drinking from his garden hose when the summer heat hit triple digits.

I stare at the lit screen for five agonizing seconds before I finally answer.

“Briggs.” He clears his throat, the sound rough and uncomfortable. “Hey, man. It’s—it’s Danny.”

“I can read the caller ID.” I push off the wall and head for the back hallway, seeking a pocket of quiet. “What is it, Danny? Is something wrong with my dad?”

He sniffs. “Murph is alright. I need to talk to you about your brother.”

I flinch at that. Ziggy is the last person I have the energy for tonight. He’s likely looking for a favor or trying to close a gap I’m not ready to bridge.

“No,” I say flatly.

“Briggs, listen to me—”

“If he’s got something to say, he can say it himself. He has my number, Danny. It’s been eight months since he’s used it, but it hasn’t changed. If Ziggy needs something, he can pick up the phone and—”

“Briggs,” he cuts in, his voice cracking in a way that stops the air in my lungs. “Stop talking. I need you to just listen. Ziggy can’t call you.” He takes a shaky breath. “He’s dead, son.”

Down the hallway, a woman’s sudden laughter erupts, bright and oblivious to the world. My stomach drops out, the room tilting on its axis as I try to process the sound of Danny’s voice. I can’t find the words to ask how it happened or where my father is.

I stay silent, incapable of a response. I’m standing in the sticky hallway of a bar I never liked, the glass in my hand still cold, and Danny Reyes has just told me my baby brother is gone.

The phone stays pressed to my ear. I don’t know for how long.

CHAPTER 2

EVIE

My dad called me earlier this morning to tell me someone had died. In our line of work, this is technically good news.

“Last minute,” he said.

In funeral-home terms, that means the family called yesterday and needs everything done by Sunday. Basically, the name of the game is that some of us are bound to get fucked over, so we all take turns.

“Tomás is already there,” my dad said.

So here I am, joining him at Sierra Vista Memorial, 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday in November.