Keller stares at Coen, expecting him to say more. To do more. To perhaps validate him as our coach.
A monkey could figure out that Coen isn’t going to say another damn word, and if I had an ounce of sympathy for Keller, I might feel a little embarrassed for him.
But I don’t.
I hope he drowns in shame for destroying the good mood Brienne and Callum brought to the room.
“Coach.” All eyes in the room slide over to Gage Heyward, who stands from his chair. “I may just be speaking for myself, but I would personally rather get to know my teammates on a one-to-one basis. But more than that, I think I can safely say that everyone in this room is eager to show you what we can do. Am I right?”
I suspect everyone in the room feels the way I do at the moment… I want to kiss the fucking dude for rescuing us.
The men agree, yelling out their desire to get the hell out of here. Someone behind me says loud enough for all to hear, “I sure as shit don’t want to do all this kumbaya stuff.”
I look back down to Keller, and he is pissed, lips pressed flat and fury etched on his face. I can tell he’s going to take it out on Gage at some point for making him look like a fool, although personally, I think Gage was very diplomatic.
The point has been made, though. The only person who thought this was a good idea was Keller, and now he has the ability to release us from this suffering.
“Okay, men… it’s clear you want some action, and I’m ready to give it. Hit the locker rooms and suit up in practice gear. Everyone on the ice in fifteen minutes.”
It’s fairly quiet as we all stand, exiting from the bottom-level door, which is but a short walk to the locker rooms. Keller stands outside the door, smiling and slapping players on the shoulders as we walk by, as if we just had an amazing bonding moment. He tries to start up a conversation, and I dread having to talk to the dude right now. I’m still pissed he leveraged my tragedy to make himself try to look good.
Before I can reach Keller, though, Gage appears at my side and engages me in conversation, speaking loud enough for all around us to hear. “Hey, man… I don’t know if you remember, but we played against each other about four years ago, and after the game, you were telling me about some nutritional supplement. I used it for a while and then stopped, and now for the life of me, I can’t remember the name of it.”
My head twists his way and my eyebrows draw inward, showing my confusion. “I’m not sure—”
“Yeah,” Gage says, a bit louder, keeping my focus on him as we pass Keller. “They were these big horse pills you swore improved metabolism or some crap.”
Just as I’m thinking this guy is bat-shit crazy, he grins and winks. In a low voice, he explains, “Figured you wanted a distraction to get past Keller.”
Dawning hits me hard, and I manage a grateful smile. “Thanks. I’m not sure what I would’ve done had he spoken to me. I need to cool down a bit.”
“Anytime,” Gage replies, claps me on the shoulder, and moves toward the locker room, leaving me to my thoughts.
The team locker room is amazing, but I only had a quick peek inside during my initial tour. It’s set in a half circle, as many are these days, which promotes a team atmosphere and provides opportunity for the coaches to address the team as a whole before, during, and after games. The Titans spared no expense in outfitting this place where many of us will spend much of our time. The showers are sleek and semiprivate, done in teak wood, and the floors are mosaic tiles of purple and silver to create the Titans’ logo.
The entire locker room floor is covered in thick, dark gray carpeting with a purple border and the Titans’ logo—at least fifteen feet in diameter—inlaid in the center. The carpet is high-end and pristine. I imagine there’s probably a team of specialized janitors who care for it.
The cubbies are massive, built wide and deep and stained a deep charcoal gray. They have hooks and shelves for gear and uniforms and a built-in bench for the players to sit on. At the top of the cubby, mounted to wood, is chrome lettering that spells out each player’s last name with purple backlighting.
None of the prior players’ names have been removed, and I wonder if that’s in tribute to them or if management is just waiting to replace them with our names.
Almost helplessly, my gaze finds my brother’s cubby, locking onto the name Dumelin at the top. The locker is empty, but I can imagine his jersey hanging there. He wore number 62.
“Can’t imagine that’s easy for you, son.” A hand comes to my shoulder, and I cringe as I recognize Keller’s voice. “You want that locker, though, it’s yours. Just say the word.”
The other guys who’d filtered in before me watch, disbelief on their faces that Keller seems determined to flaunt my brother in my face.
I decide to set a tone that will get him off my back and leave my brother in the grave where he belongs. “We weren’t that close. Give it to someone else.”
“But… but…”
I don’t wait around for him to finish stammering. I move away, causing his hand to fall from my shoulder.
Pretending an interest in the therapy room adjacent to the shower room, I walk through the doorway and pray to God Keller doesn’t follow. If he mentions my brother again, I’m going to lose my position on the team as I’m going to end up punching him.
CHAPTER 2
Harlow
“Law offices of Harlow Alston,” Bonita says sweetly into the phone. “How may I help you?”
I continue flipping through the mail Bonita had opened and sorted. She lays it out on the corner of her reception desk for me every day around mid-morning. I make myself come to her desk to go through it; otherwise, I’d never get out of my chair. I’m one of those workaholics who can sit in front of a computer for hours on end until my bladder threatens to erupt if I don’t go to the bathroom.
Bonita has other methods she employs to get me out of my chair. One day, she came into my office with a file to review, and her gaze fixated on something just over my shoulder.
“That’s the biggest spider I’ve ever seen,” she’d whispered cautiously. “Move very slowly out of your chair and—”
I came flying out of it so fast, it rolled backward and slammed into the windowsill. I was all the way out of my office before I looked back to see Bonita bent over laughing and shaking her head.
Tears in her eyes, she gasped, “As long as you’re up, you might as well take a quick walk around the block.”
It never seemed to matter to my faithful receptionist/secretary/paralegal/part-time surrogate mother that I work out every morning at five a.m. and am naturally athletic. I’m in prime shape, having played volleyball in college at Duquesne, and nowadays, I play in a high-powered rec league both in the spring and fall. I run half-marathons and spend most good-weather weekends hiking the Allegheny Mountains.
No, Bonita thinks I sit on my ass too much during the day, and she knows damn well I take work home with me and probably sit on my ass all night, so she takes it upon herself to get me moving when she deems I need it.
“Just a minute, please,” Bonita says and puts the caller on hold. “It’s Charlie Bitterman.”