9. Briggs
brIGGS
I’ve been waiting here for twelve minutes. It’s my fault for showing up early, but Ted’s late on top of it, which I know he does to send a message.
When he arrives, I have to watch him work the room first. He shakes hands with a man at the bar, then another at a four-top, then says something to the hostess that makes her laugh. Three stops in forty feet.
Ted finally slides into the opposite side of the booth. “You look good,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Well rested. That break was needed, huh?”
I didn’t take a goddamned break. I missed one game and flew back here on very little sleep. But what the fuck ever. He doesn’t wait for me to respond, anyway.
“How’s Charlotte treating you?” he asks, already flagging the waiter. When she approaches, he barely spares her a glance. “We’ll do the branzino, both of us. And sparkling.”
I don’t especially want the branzino. But I let it go, because arguing with Ted about fish is a waste of my time. He has an agenda, and I’ve known him long enough to recognize the warm-up.
It takes him only one sip of his sparkling water to get to the point.
“So. I want to talk about”—he holds up both hands, spreading them out wide in front of me—“your story.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
He leans in, elbows on the white cloth. “You’ve got one now.
A real human story. Everyone’s talking about you—that photo from the service went viral.
So we should get ahead of it. One sit-down with the right outlet.
You talk about your brother, about coming back and playing through it because it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Grief and grit.”
I stare at him, unblinking. The bread basket blurs at the edge of my vision. I’ve spent every day since the funeral trying not to think about Ziggy, and Ted wants me to do it on camera for leverage.
My ears go hot. On the outside, nothing. What I’d really like is to put Ted’s head through the window to my left. What I do is set my fork down and square it against the plate.
“You want me to do an interview about Zig?”
“I want you to control the narrative.” He spreads his hands, palm side up this time, like he’s offering me something. “This is the most valuable you’ve ever been, contractually. We don’t want to waste it.”
The waiter sets down a bowl of sliced lemons for our San Pellegrino. Beneath the table, my hands have gone still.
“No,” I say forcefully.
“Briggs—”
“I’m not selling that fuckin’ story.”
Ted holds up both palms. He’s known me long enough to know the restraint in my voice is worse than yelling. “Okay, buddy. Let’s put a pin in it,” he says, then pivots without a breath. “How about we talk about a new deal. You ready for that?”
I groan, the pressure behind my ribs easing slightly now that we’ve cleared the topic of Ziggy. “Isn’t it a bit premature to be discussing the deal?”
We’re only in November. There’s still a lifetime of hockey left to play before the ice melts in April.
“I’ve already put out feelers. Chicago and Colorado have both expressed interest if the situation in Charlotte goes south.” He marks them off with two fingers. “You’re an expiring asset on a roster that’s currently scraping for a wild card.”
Why does every person in this industry want to jump the gun? There’s nearly a full calendar left in the season. But that’s Ted. Always three moves ahead on the board, selling the version of me that fetches the highest commission this quarter.
I don’t know what kind of reaction he’s looking for, and I don’t bother offering one. Another city. Another dressing room full of names to memorize, another reserved parking space that doesn’t feel like mine. I’ve built a life here that I actually like, even if we’re not top three.
Ted doesn’t have the ability to process that. He’s sitting across from a man who should be hungry for a Cup, who should be desperate to crawl out of the wild-card muck and into a contender’s jersey. But I can’t find the hunger he requires. Lately, it feels like I’m running on empty.
There haven’t been any more incidents since the terminal. No tingling in the fingertips, no heavy hand on my sternum. Some days I think my brain is coming back online. Other days I think I’m just treading water between the waves.
“Fine,” I grit out. “Options are always a good thing.”
“Exactly right.” He checks his phone, thumbs out a reply. “How’s the leg, by the way?”
I tilt my head. “The leg?”
“The groin thing. From October.”
It was nothing—two weeks, barely missed a practice, hasn’t twinged since. But Ted’s tracking it, because a healthy body prices higher than a hurt one.
“We’re good,” I say, irritated all over again.
“Great.”
Ted works through his branzino while I manage to push mine around the plate.
After he signals for the check, he says, “We’ll touch base once the western swing is finished. Charlotte’s treatin’ you fine for now, but we need to keep the horizon in view.”
The performance has been going for forty minutes, and not once has he mentioned Murphy.
No questions about the recovery, the house, or how my father is managing the silence now that my brother is gone.
Ted hasn’t forgotten about the stroke or the burial.
It’s just that none of those things move a number on a spreadsheet, so they don’t earn a spot on his agenda.
Any other night, I’d have been relieved by the omission. I’m an expert at avoiding the heavy shit myself. But today, the silence sits wrong. Being asked would’ve meant he recognized a man behind the jersey, instead of just the asset he’s trying to price.
I offer a tight nod while he pivots to a lecture about a steak house in Denver I’m apparently obligated to visit.
Ted is top-of-the-line. He’s polished, reliable, and ruthless with a contract. He’s exactly the guy I hired years ago. But we’re on different frequencies now. He’s tuned to the version of me that fetches the highest commission, and I’ve lost the interest required to find him on the dial.
We hit the road for Tampa four days later. The Kings are clinging to a one-goal lead as we bleed into the third, but the game slips through our fingers in the final four minutes—a messy line change and a puck that takes an uncharitable bounce.
Twelve seconds into overtime, their winger cycles out of the corner and roofs one over Duval’s glove.
A loss is a loss, whatever charity point we picked up for reaching the extra period. That point feels like nothing when you played that badly. A couple more nights like this, and we’ll be on the outside looking in come April.
I’m sour on the bus ride back. I pull my hood up and find an old playlist that requires zero effort, tuning out the guys while I pull out my phone.
Evie
your dad yelled a few words at the tv I’m not allowed to repeat
for what it’s worth, I thought you looked especially fast tonight
Briggs
yeah, but I missed one I usually bury
Evie
everybody misses sometimes
Briggs
don’t patronize me. it’s not going to take
Evie
fine. your team was a disaster and you should feel bad
A short laugh punches out of me. ?berg looks over from the seat across the aisle, and I face the dark window to keep the grin to myself.
Briggs
much better. thanks
Evie
any time. professional curiosity—does this object strike you as being possessed?
She attaches a photo. It’s a small ceramic angel, maybe six inches tall, with eyes that have cracked into a terrifying blue stare. It’s missing a wing, and its tiny porcelain hands are fisted around a shape I can’t quite identify.
I snort, the post-game static in my head finally clearing.
Briggs
what is that thing holding?
Evie
WE DON’T KNOW. I’m voting olive branch. tomás is convinced it’s a human femur
Briggs
that’s the coworker, right?
Evie
yep. the most well-adjusted person on the payroll. which, again, is a very low bar
I wonder what draws a person to a career involving death. My only references are Ray and Evie—one who can bridge the gap with a grieving stranger on asphalt, and one who can rattle off national mortality rates at a gravesite. Both exceptional at the job. Neither what you’d expect.
On the subject of things you wouldn’t expect: Augie is currently sprawled in the seat next to mine, his mouth ajar as he sleeps through the ride, a mangled protein bar still gripped in his fist. I snap a photo and send it off.
Briggs
speaking of things that shouldn’t exist, here’s August
Evie
wow. is he available?
My stomach takes a slow roll. It’s an odd thing for her to ask, even as a joke.
Briggs
you’d actually date a hockey player?
Evie
who said a single word about dating?
Briggs
good lord
Evie
relax, thirteen. I’m not looking to adopt your golden retriever
I lock the screen, a sudden irritation prickling under my skin. The bus drops us at the hotel, and I head straight for the room. Lights out, the faint grinding of the ice machine the only sound in the hall, I reach for the phone again.
Briggs
for the record, he’s a loud chewer and he’s been known to cry at insurance commercials
Evie
so he’s got a sensitive side AND he’s single. you’re quite the salesman
Briggs
go to sleep, evie
Evie
the sun’s still up over here
Briggs
aren’t vampires supposed to be nocturnal?
Evie
your grasp of the folklore is truly pathetic
Briggs
I’ll leave the undead expertise to the specialists
Evie
finally, a professional courtesy
Briggs
goodnight, gravedigger
Evie
goodnight
Our flight leaves the next morning. It’s an off day for the Kings, which means my performance moves from the ice to the kitchen counter, where I can finally face the administrative debris of a dead man. There’s a stack of it—accounts that need closing, calls I’ve been avoiding.
First on the list is the insurance claim for Ziggy’s car. The form asks for a narrative of the loss in my own words. Below that, a crude diagram of an intersection with two small boxes representing the vehicles. There’s a line at the bottom asking if the insured was at fault.
He didn’t see the stop sign. That was the version I was given. His fault, then. I suppose so.
I fill in the basic details and leave the rest of the boxes empty.
After that, it’s the bank, followed by my dad’s supplemental policy, and finally a voicemail from Ray’s office regarding a small remaining balance on the funeral. By the time I’ve cleared enough mental space to breathe, it’s seven o’clock—four in Vegas, and I know Murphy hasn’t started dinner yet.
I hit the Call button.
“Briggs?”
“Hey. How’s the day going?”
“Good,” he says gruffly.
“Yeah?” I lean back against the counter. “How’s the arm?”
“The arm’s fine. Never mind the arm.” There’s a certain lightness in his register that I haven’t heard in a long time, and I catch it instantly. “You know what she did? Your girl. She fixed the ramp.”
“She’s not my—”
“Brought her own drill. Refused to let me help, which, fine. Now the board doesn’t move.” He clears his throat. “She’s a good one, Briggs. You don’t find many like her.”
“I know. She’s exceptional.”
“I’m just saying. A man could do a whole lot worse than—”
“I’m not doing anything, Dad. She works for the family.”
“Mm.” He lets the silence sit, clearly unconvinced. I can see the look on his face, that slight hitch at the right corner of his mouth. “Anyway. She’s due here any minute. The afternoon shift.”
“Alright, I’ll let you go, then. Just wanted to check in.”
“No—stay on. Say hello.” I recognize the maneuver immediately. My father, the matchmaker, with all the subtlety of a slap shot. “She’ll be here in a—”
A knock sounds against the door.
“As predicted,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. “Hold on.”
I wait. I’m smiling despite myself, alone in my condo with the phone pressed to my ear, waiting for her voice—the dry hello, the sarcastic bite, whatever it is she decides to throw at me tonight.
The door swings open.
“Miss Andrews.” There’s a shock in my father’s voice that makes the air in my lungs stop. “Well. This is certainly a surprise.”
“Hi, Murph. I hope this is okay. I know things were difficult at the service, but I—I wanted to bring something by.” I hear the sound of something changing hands, something heavy. “It’s a lasagna. And there’s a pie. I wanted to make sure you were eating.”
My spine goes rigid.
Ophelia isn’t there for me. I’m two thousand miles away, and she has no idea I’m on the line. So what the hell is she doing in that kitchen?
“Dad,” I say into the receiver.
I want to tell him to close the door. To leave the lasagna on the porch. But he’s already pulled the phone away from his ear, and he can’t hear me.
He’s murmuring something to her, the screen door creaking on its hinge.
“Dad!” I shout, one last time.
The connection goes muffled against his shirt. I hang up and swallow the bitter taste climbing my throat. If Ophelia thinks she can find a route back in through my father’s house, she’s about to learn otherwise.
I pull up Evie’s thread, my thumb moving fast.
Briggs
when you get to the house, tell the devil in the doorway to get lost. and don’t you DARE touch that fucking lasagna.
Evie
***