Cherry on Ice

1. Briggs

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.”

“We’ll think about it,” I say.

She mumbles something that earns a grin from Augie. Green Dress steps into my space, close enough that I catch a hit of orange blossom, and slides a folded napkin into my palm.

She winks. “For when you’re done thinking.”

Then they’re gone, vanished back into the loud, bright press of the room.

I shove the paper into my pocket without checking the number.

“You going to use that?” Augie asks.

“No.”

“She was gorgeous, Briggs. What’s the matter with you?”

“She was pretty,” I agree. “Still no.”

Augie is a young thirty, two years my senior, and I genuinely don’t know how he still has the energy. How he manages to turn it on and actually stay there. I’ve been this version of present-but-elsewhere for as long as I can remember.

“Look at Sato.” Augie gestures with his glass toward the far end of the vinyl. “That’s the third woman to give him an opening tonight, and he hasn’t even blinked. Just him, that Coke, and the thousand-yard stare.”

“He’s nineteen,” I say. “He’s still figuring it all out.”

“So are you, apparently. The rookie is the only thing keeping you from being the most pathetic dry spell out of all of us. You’re being outpaced by a kid who can’t even legally order a beer in North Carolina.”

“I’m setting a professional example.”

“Professional,” Augie parrots, his grin widening. “So that means you want to help me with the next rookie dinner?”

“Hell no,” I mutter. “I’m not looking past tonight. You know I don’t think about next season until this one’s over.”

He lets out a bark of laughter, loud enough that a couple of our defensemen look over from their argument.

My current deal expires in April, which is part of the pressure at the back of my skull. Am I a King for the long haul, or am I just a man holding a spot until the deadline? I don’t know if Charlotte wants to keep me, and some nights, I’m not even sure if I want to be kept at all.

Charlotte and the Kings have treated me well. My condo is a short ten-minute commute from the rink, complete with a dedicated parking spot that bears my name in stenciled concrete. There’s even a neighborhood coffee joint where the staff begins prepping my order before I arrive.

In every sense that matters, I’ve made this city my own. It was a slow process, but I’ve built a life here brick by brick.

And Las Vegas, the town that raised me, is now a closed chapter for me. I made sure of it. Still, I catch myself wondering if the only thing keeping me in Charlotte is the sheer exhaustion of the prospect of starting over.

I’m currently the top-line left wing. After six years in the league, I still haven’t figured out what my identity would be without the jersey. Here, the expectations are clear, and the fit is perfect. When the clock is winding down and a play needs to be made, I’m the one they look for.

Maybe a different roster would offer a faster route to a Cup.

Maybe a different city would just mean another three years of trying to prove I belong.

“You want to know your problem, Maxie?” Augie asks, leaning in.

I scrub a hand over my face. “I have a feeling you’re about to tell me regardless.”

“The machine.” He taps his temple. “You don’t know how to power it down. You’re still running the numbers when the math is already finished. The game ended, Briggs. We won. Just let a win be a win for once. You’re allowed to enjoy it.”

I smirk. “Is my big brain an inconvenience for you?”

“Tell you what.” He scans the room, his gaze settling on a target near the pool tables. “If I can get that woman to ditch the guy she’s with and laugh at a single joke in the next five minutes, you have to do a shot with me. Deal?”

“Give me one reason why I’d agree to that.”

“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.