21. Briggs
brIGGS
The team bus leaves for the airport at half past seven, which gives me a few minutes in the lobby of our hotel to keep my promise.
Briggs
bus is here. wheels up at nine
this is me texting before the flight. as discussed
Evie
look at that. a man of his word
how’s the messed up head?
Briggs
attached. yours?
Evie
debatable. someone kept me up until after midnight. had to drink another glass of plum wine after he left to clear my thoughts
Briggs
he sounds inconsiderate
Evie
he has his moments
Augie drops into the seat beside me, blatantly reading my screen. “What happened to your head?”
“Nothing,” I grumble, snatching my phone away. “Read your own texts.”
“Mine are boring.” He stretches his legs into the aisle, then laces his fingers behind his head. “You gonna tell me her name yet, or do I keep calling her the girl who’s working for your dad?”
“It’s Evie.”
“My favorite Pokémon. Hell yeah.”
“Different spelling,” I mutter.
“Still counts.”
I track the Strip through the glass, a long, neon-smeared fever dream of color sliding past as we move. I let the motion settle against the static in my head, just watching the lights blur.
Briggs
does this mean I’m back on your good side?
Evie
are you sure I even have one of those? tragically undead, remember? *vampire emoji*
A laugh catches in my throat, and Augie looks over immediately. “You seem better.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, which is a relief.” He drops his head back against the vinyl. “Because I need an actual opinion, and you’re a total loss when you’re out of it.”
“An opinion on what?”
“There’s this woman. From New Year’s.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “She’s still texting me. Like, aggressively sexy shit. And I’m answering because I’m a man with a pulse, but it’s bordering on a chore.”
“So tell her that.”
“What, should we set a rotation? Like, tits on Tuesdays, ass shots on Thursdays? Because when we’re in the middle of a road swing—”
“Augie.”
“I’m serious. It’s a high-maintenance situation.” He holds up his palms. “That’s why I’m bringing it to the committee.”
“The committee thinks you should block her if you’re not actually interested.” I squint at him, unconvinced. “Didn’t you just tell me your texts were boring?”
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, “boring is a sliding scale.”
We both crack up, the sound cutting through the low trill of the tires. It’s loud enough that Kyo pivots in his seat, his eyes wide and careful as he tries to locate the joke. I wave the kid off.
When we hit the freeway and the bus finally settles, I pull my hoodie up and stare at the passing lights.
My mind drifts back to last night—the way Evie looked at me when she suggested I talk to someone. Not a trainer or a coach, but a professional for the heavy shit. The betrayal and the burial and the two years of holding my breath.
It’s a terrifying thought—letting a complete stranger examine the parts of me that aren’t meant for a scoreboard.
“You ever see a therapist?” I ask, keeping my voice low enough that it won’t travel.
“Isabelle,” Augie replies without missing a beat. “Had her since my draft year. She’s exceptional.”
“Really?”
“Don’t look so shocked, Briggs. It’s how I stay this well-adjusted.” He tilts his head, studying my face. “Oh wait, was that a request? You want her number?”
“Yeah, actually. Does she do telehealth?”
“Fuck yeah she does. Half her clients are athletes.” He’s already typing, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. “Sent. Tell her I referred you so she lowers my rates.”
The bus pulls into the private terminal twenty minutes later. We file off with our bags, through security, and onto the plane in the usual choreographed chaos. Somebody has already lost a charger. Somebody else is scarfing down something that smells like eggs.
By the time I get to my row, Augie is already trying to steal the window.
“You have your own seat,” I tell him.
“I like yours better.”
“Move.”
He begrudgingly retreats to the spot across the aisle. The other guys are settling into their familiar order—Hartwell up front with the coaches, Duval and Fozzy already arguing about something, Kyo three rows back with his hood up.
“Six letters,” Augie says to me over the safety demonstration. “Away from home.”
“Hotel,” I reply.
“That’s five.”
“Vegas,” I say, annoyed.
“Also five, and also not how crosswords work.” He fills in something else entirely. “It’s afield.”
My eyes narrow. “Why’d you ask if you know the answer?”
“I like watching you get things wrong.”
Somewhere over Oregon, Augie falls asleep mid-clue, pen still gripped in his hand, and I put my headphones in and watch the ground disappear under a floor of clouds. Our next game is in Seattle, which means a couple more days in this time zone before the schedule drags me back east.
It’s cold, gray, and raining sideways off the water. We beat the Surge 3–1, and I get an assist on Augie’s power-play goal that Bellan calls “the first honest defensive game you’ve played in a month.” From him, that’s practically a bouquet.
I take a picture of the visitors’ tunnel—bare cinder block and one sad motivational poster—and send it to Evie. Aside from Vegas, Seattle is my least favorite road city. I’ve never once seen the sun here.
After three winters in North Carolina, I’ve lost whatever tolerance I had for standing around in the rain.
Briggs
seattle is such a shithouse
Evie
stunning. is that mold or a design choice?
Briggs
I assume it’s both. seattle is the vegas of washington. both convinced they’re better than they are
Evie
what do you have against seattle? I love it there
Briggs
the people are rude as hell and it smells like wet dog
Evie
not my version of the city. try it in the summer
how’d we do, by the way? I didn’t get to watch the game
Briggs
we?
Evie
for all you and your dad have put me through, I have equity now. how’d WE do?
Briggs
we won. I was very fast. ask the big man
She takes a few minutes to reply, and I find myself checking the phone twice before it buzzes. It’s a ridiculous amount of attention to give a screen.
Evie
he says you were “gripping your stick less.” congratulations on your loose stick
Briggs
let’s never say that again
Our flight home lands past two in the morning, and there’s a text waiting when we touch down. I didn’t expect her to be the one to start it. Thank God I opened the door back up the other night because being in Evie’s good graces is bar none.
Evie
do you know what a burial vault costs?
Briggs
I do, actually. recent discovery. why?
Evie
shit. sorry. forgot who I was talking to
Briggs
it’s fine. why do you ask?
Evie
family today tried to haggle. I get being on a budget, but dad quoted them and the son goes “what if we skip the vault” like it’s extra guac
Briggs
what’d Ray say?
Evie
he took $200 off and threw in the guestbook. he always caves. it’s why we’re broke and beloved
Briggs
beloved’s not nothing
Evie
spoken like a man with plenty of disposable income
Somewhere in the second week, the texting stops being enough. During our home game against Dallas, I score twice. Instead of typing it out, I call Evie from my car in the players’ lot with my hair still damp from the shower.
She picks up right away. “Two goals.”
My chest loosens. “You watched the game?”
“I was in the room while your dad watched, allegedly tidying.” A door closes on her end, and the background noise drops away. “The second one was showing off.”
“It was a professional shot.”
“You looked at the bench after. Who were you looking at?”
“Augie,” I reply, kicking the heater down a notch. “He bet me a hundred bucks I couldn’t beat that goalie glove side.”
“So you’re up a hundred bucks?”
“He’ll claim the bet was blocker side. He does this.”
“You should write it down so he can’t lie later.”
“Ah,” I reply, “that would be against the rules.”
She laughs warmly, and the sound fills the whole car. Just like I thought—this is so much better than a text. I put the phone on speaker for the drive back to the condo.
She stays on for the entire ride, telling me about a widow who requested a Jimmy Buffett processional and a casket spray shaped like a parrot. Phil, apparently, promised the family they could deliver.
“Tomás was able to source it from somewhere in Boulder City in about four hours,” she says. “The man’s a genius. Wasted on us.”
“You said he owns a tattoo shop on Charleston, right?”
“Yeah.” The pause is small, but I catch it. “Actually, he asked me if I wanted to apprentice for him. Needs to fill a spot.”
“And?” I pull into my garage and cut the engine. “Are you gonna do it?”
“I don’t really have the time, do I?”
“Spring will be here soon enough.”
By then, she’ll be done working for me and my dad. We can be whatever we are without a paycheck sitting in the middle of it.
“I just can’t decide.” A cabinet shuts on her end. Tea things, probably; I know her sounds now. “I don’t know if it’s realistic. I already told my dad I’d go back to full-time at the funeral home once Murphy’s good to go.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Okay?”
“You want me to argue with you about your own schedule?”
“Everyone else does. Hazel drew me a chart.”
“Well, I’m not gonna push you if it isn’t what you want.”
The garage light times out and leaves me in the dark, the phone warm against my ear. She’s quiet long enough that I check the screen to make sure the call hasn’t dropped.
“Anyway,” she says, her tone brightening, “your dad’s been pestering me lately about what’s going on with us.”
My heart clenches. “Us?”
“Me and you.”
“Did you tell him we’re madly in love?”
“Mmm, you wish,” she says snidely. “He knows we’re back on good terms, and now he really, really wants his ship to sail.”
“Then the two of us are on the same page for once.”
She gives me a long, heaving sigh. “Briggs.”
“I like you, Evie. I think you know that by now.”
“Yes, but—”
“But you wanted to see how things went once I was back in Charlotte, and now we have. I’m still thinking about you all the time. Drowning in it, actually.”
“But . . . you hate Vegas.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to be wherever you are.”
She huffs a laugh. “Very smooth for a man who ran away from me in December.”
“I’ve had over a month to workshop it.” I lean my head back against the seat. “You want the unworkshopped version?”
“Obviously.”
“I think about your mouth constantly. I think about the sound you made when I finally got my hands on you, and I’ve been getting through some very long flights on that memory alone.
” I let that sit for a second. “And when I do finally get you alone again, I’m not stopping for a phone call, an emergency, or the actual end of the world. ”
There’s a long pause on the line. When she finally speaks, her voice has gone lower. “That’s better than the workshopped version.”
“Noted.”
“Good night, thirteen.”
“Talk tomorrow, pretty girl.”
We fall into it after that, calls stacked around the schedule. Montréal on the road, where we lose terribly. I call her from the hotel anyway just to be talked out of my own head. She tells me about Gerald microwaving fish in the break room and the ensuing evacuation.
Detroit at home, where the opposing fans try to boo me all night for December’s fight. Augie scores and cups his ear at them on my behalf. Washington, where Kyo gets his first career goal and cries at his stall. The whole room chants his name.
I tell Evie about it quietly from the hallway.
“He’s the baby,” she says. “Your baby.”
“He’s not.”
“You sent me a photo of him sleeping on the plane with a caption that said ‘he needs a hat.’”
“He did need a hat. It was fucking cold.”
By the end of the month, the calls have their own schedule. She’s mine on the drive home after games and the last sound I hear before bed, three hours behind, doing her dishes or sitting on her one-chair terrace while the coyotes go off in the dark.
I know her tea order and her top three least-favorite hymns. She knows my pregame meal and that I have to sit with my back to the wall in restaurants, which she calls “cowboy syndrome” and refuses to elaborate.
It’s the best January of my career, and not because of the point totals. Five points in twelve games, but Bellan’s had me out against the other team’s best line every night, and we’re winning those minutes.
I’ve also managed two appointments with Isabelle so far, both via video calls from my kitchen counter. I retreated into hockey for the first forty-five minutes because the stats were safer than the truth, and she let me stay there.
Then, in the final minutes, she finally steered us toward my brother.
We didn’t touch the betrayal. We talked about the version of him that existed before the world got messy, back when we were just two kids in the desert. She asked me to name a single thing I remembered about him that wasn’t tied to all the bullshit.
I had to sit in the silence for a long time before the first word arrived.
Categorizing him that way—as a boy I once loved rather than a trauma I’m currently surviving—absolutely leveled me for an hour after I closed the laptop. Then, slowly, the floor stopped moving.
Next appointment, I think I might stay in the deep end a little longer.