He, too, played D1 hockey and was drafted to the Titans. My father was happier than a pig in shit, and he for sure took all the credit for my brother’s accomplishments. Brooks and I would laugh about it over beers and mimic my dad and his insatiable need for the spotlight.
When I was twenty-three, the Boston Eagles won the Cup. When it was my turn to have the Cup with me for the day, I threw a party at my home in Boston. It was Brooks’s last year in college, and I told him it would only be a matter of time before he was able to hoist the coveted trophy above his head, so sure I was of his talent and determination.
Of course, we laughed because my dad pretty much clung to the Cup throughout the entire party and had my mom take a zillion pictures of him with it.
Those were the last happy days I remember. The next training camp, I injured my shoulder, and it was the start of a downward spiral. While Brooks’s star started to shine brighter, I had a hard time coming back from the injury.
I was out for months but came back to the Eagles, only to injure it again. After another rehab, I came back but wasn’t stable enough to even make the third-line cut.
At age twenty-six, my star dimmed, and I was sent down to the minors.
Can’t say that my father really noticed, though. After my injury, he’d jumped on Brooks’s bandwagon and never looked back at his injured son struggling to save his career.
It built resentment inside me, leveled mostly at my father for being so self-centered he couldn’t be just a father, and then toward my mother who parroted him in all ways. Lastly, I resented Brooks because after years of being number two, he was now finally number one, and he loved the attention from our dad. We no longer laughed over beers about Dad’s antics, and instead, Brooks staunchly defended him anytime I complained. I suppose he suffered from not having that fatherly attention all those years growing up and needed the validation.
It unfortunately caused a rift between us, and over time, we barely spoke to each other. Brooks was a star on the Titans, the second-leading scorer at left wing behind Coen Highsmith.
Me?
I played for the Cleveland Badgers, earning a whopping $92,000 a year, quite the decline from my $3 million contract with the Eagles. When I left the pros, so too did the endorsements. I was pretty much a has-been trying to hang on to a dying career. Even though I’d completely recovered from my shoulder injury and was as strong as ever, no one really remembered who Stone Dumelin was, indicating my star had completely fizzled.
Now… I’m back in the top tier with a lucrative contract freshly signed. I should be celebrating my luck, and yet, all I can think about is how fucking wrong it feels.
I arrived in Pittsburgh yesterday and moved right into a cheap, furnished apartment Aunt Bethany helped me find while I scrambled to close down my life in Cleveland. I can afford more, but I’m not interested. I’ve had the wealth and glamour, and I know how unimportant it is.
I also know how fleeting it can be, so I’m banking all my money and waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The Titans’ arena has always been one of my favorites to play in, and now that it’s my official place of employment, I came early today to take a better look around. Callum Derringer had front office staff prepared to give tours to all the incoming players, which was a major influx of new people to accommodate. The facilities are top-notch and luxurious, and I can say it doesn’t suck to have such nice conditions.
Currently, I’m sitting in what is aptly called the Bowl. It’s the team’s meeting room shaped, well, like a bowl. Circular rows of plush chairs rise up from the center floor with large digital screens all around the top for us to watch video.
We’ve been summoned to our first meeting as the new team, and my stomach is in knots. I wonder if I’ve made a mistake because I feel like a fraud.
Glancing around, I see some familiar faces. Gage Heyward is a veteran player, and we’ve played against each other. He’s well-respected, and I expect that’s why he’s on the team.
Coen Highsmith is another one, highly recognizable as a member of what has been referred to as the Lucky Three.
They’re the three Titans players who weren’t on the doomed plane: Coen, due to the flu, and the other two, Camden Poe and Hendrix Bateman, due to minor injuries.
Camden and Hendrix are sitting together, but Coen is off by himself in the last row opposite me. He’s slumped in his chair, surfing his phone. Definitely unapproachable, but I figure the guy has a lot of fucking weight on his shoulders.
Most of the other guys are up from the minors, and I know them from my stint there as well. Not anyone I know well, though, as relationships don’t seem to foster as thickly at that level as they do in the pros.
More players straggle in, and I take the opportunity to check my messages. Yesterday I let Bethany know I had arrived safe and sound. It’s nice to have her worry over me. She made me promise to call after my first day to tell her all the details, and I’ll do that later tonight when I get to my apartment.
I can’t help the irritation that comes with merely seeing my dad’s name in my texts. The man has barely paid attention to me in three years—since I lost my footing with the Eagles—and didn’t try to offer any solace when Brooks died.
Now he won’t leave me the fuck alone.
Now that I’m on a professional team again.
His latest message is offensive. Let me know when you get family tickets. Mom and I will fly to as many games as we can if you can help us with the tickets. Otherwise, we’ll drive.
That’s it. No checking to see how I’m doing, no supportive words, no affirmation. Just wanting to know when he can be a hockey dad again now that Brooks is dead.
Fuck him.
I turn off my phone just as one of the doors opens and Brienne Norcross strolls in with Callum Derringer behind her. I’d noticed the coaches were already seated in the front row, and I had a chance to talk to all of them when I arrived earlier. Even the goalie coach, Baden Oulett, made a point of introducing himself, although we won’t really be working together.
The room was mostly quiet before, none of the players openly talking. Now it’s dead silent as the Titans’ owner, Brienne Norcross, moves to the center. I realize that she and I have something in common… we both lost siblings on the plane. I haven’t had the chance to meet her yet, but she sent me a nice welcome email after I accepted the offer and also extended her condolences.
Brienne makes a sound low in her throat, perhaps clearing it. She looks nervous, but determined. “Gentlemen… you must know first that I owe every one of you an apology.”
I jolt in surprise—that is not what I expected for the opening line from the owner. I look left and right and see I’m not the only one perplexed by this.
But then she goes on to tell us that she is going to make mistakes, and she would ask us to bear with her.
Give her grace is what she requests.
In as humble a fashion as any multibillionaire can, she proclaims we will move forward as a team and that she will be there for us. She has put herself down on our level and let us know that whatever fumbles we have, we’ll do them together.
Her speech is refreshing, and frankly, a little inspiring. For the first time since I accepted their offer, I actually think I could enjoy being on this team.
Apparently, the others think the same as she gets a thunderous roar of approval from the men.