Be stronger. I know you can.
Also tell him I love him.
Make him believe it.
Love,
Big Bit
By the time I finish reading the letter, I’m sobbing again. Odin rises from the floor—the dog bed I bought him two years ago ignored because the floor is cooler and he’s a mountain dog—and pads over to me. He sets his big head in my lap, and my fingers bury into his fur for comfort. Bonita pokes her head in my office before bringing me a box of tissues. She backs out quietly as I reread the letter, shutting the door behind her. She’s such a gem, she’ll immediately head to the break room to brew tea.
I take out the trust documents and peruse them with a heavy heart. They were drawn up by a well-known estate firm downtown, and I have indeed been listed as the trustee. Brooks didn’t ask me to draw up this paperwork because he knew estate work wasn’t my specialty. With an estate the size of his, he needed lawyers who knew how to make the thing unbreakable and as advantageous tax-wise as possible.
I am, however, more than qualified to assume the role of trustee. I don’t have to. I could petition the court to appoint someone else, but the asshole—with all due affection—handwrote me a letter and implored me to carry out these wishes.
There’s no way I can say no.
Besides, he’d probably haunt me if I did.
Setting the documents down on the desk, I take Odin’s head in my hands and lift him up so we’re eye-to-eye. “I should have let you bite Brooks that first time you met him.”
His dark brown eyes seem to say he understands.
But truly, I’m not mad at Brooks’s request. I’d do anything to help him, and I hope if he’s watching over me, this gives him peace knowing I’ll do all I can to carry out his wishes.
Bending down, I place a kiss on Odin’s snout and then give him a gentle push away. He moves over to his water bowl and laps it up before settling down beside my desk.
I flip through the trust documents again, identify the information I need, and then pull up my email.
Many attorneys prefer to send documents via snail mail, but I think it’s a ridiculous way to communicate if you have an email address.
I type in the subject line, Brooks Dumelin Estate, and then move to the body of the email.
Dear Mr. Dumelin,
I’m reaching out on behalf of your brother, Brooks, who has appointed me trustee of his estate.
It takes me over an hour to compose what should’ve been a very simple email. But I know Stone Dumelin is not going to welcome this correspondence. Over the two years I’ve been friends with Brooks, I’m well aware of the toxicity running through the Dumelin family and that Stone was all but an outcast. I also know that Brooks has long wanted to make things right, but he never quite knew how.
Maybe now is the time.
I only hope Stone Dumelin will respond to me so I can make good on his dead brother’s wishes.
CHAPTER 3
Stone
Christ, my nerves are sizzling. First game as a Titan.
And not just any first game.
The first game with a new team after the old team died.
First game against a powerhouse—the Washington Breakers—who are third in our conference. I think we’re all anticipating a slaughter.
And yet, the knowledge that we’re a hastily thrown together group of hockey players who will probably flub a lot of shit tonight hasn’t diminished the fans’ excitement. Since the arena doors opened, we’ve listened to the crowd’s almost nonstop cheering.
Not a bad thing, I might add.
Stepping onto the ice for warm-ups weakened my legs a little. Normally, most fans are out on the concourse before the game starts, socializing and getting food and drinks. Sure, there are those who like to watch us warm up, but it’s typically quiet outside of the music that’s pumped in.
But so far, tonight’s been different from anything I’ve ever seen.
Almost the entire arena was already packed with fans on their feet, screaming in a frenzy as we did our warm-up drills. Little kids with inspirational signs stood at the glass, watching us with big eyes. Several of us flipped pucks over the top of the glass to them, earning gap-toothed grins and shrieks of excitement.
And now it’s the final quiet before the storm. Warm-up is complete, and we’re back in the locker room for last-minute prep—taping sticks, adjusting laces and pads, listening to Coach Keller’s bullet points about the Breakers.
I sit on my cubby bench, elbows on my knees, and listen to Keller. He runs hot and cold with his messaging, whether it’s on the ice, passing in the hall, or here in the locker room. Sometimes he’s all praise and positive affirmation, proclaiming us the hope and future of Pittsburgh. Other times he’s blowing his lid over something insignificant and calling us a bunch of rejects. There’s absolutely no consistency, and I can tell it’s unsettling to many of the players.
He probably got away with that at the college level, but regardless if we’re pros or minors, we’re paid employees. No one takes that well from their boss.
I don’t give a shit because not much penetrates these days. I’m here to ride this wave as long as I can, fully expecting I’ll be back down in the minors at some point.
At least for tonight, Keller’s caught up in the history we’re making here today and is attempting to be genuinely inspirational. I keep half an ear on what he’s saying.
I glance around the half-moon shape of the room, most of the players sitting the same as I am. Operations moved fast this past week, removing the chrome names of the victims from the tops of the lockers, replacing them with the names of those here today.
A young winger the team picked up from the Czech Republic sits at the cubby that used to be my brother’s. There was an attempt made by the owner of the team to see if I wanted Brooks’s cubby. Brienne Norcross approached me not long after we had our first team meeting, clearly not having received the message from Keller that I didn’t want to sit at my brother’s place. She pulled me aside and expressed another round of condolences for the loss of Brooks.
I thought it ironic when she said, “I didn’t know your brother…”
And I wanted to say, “Same, Brienne. Same.”
Whereas Keller had no tact in asking me about the cubby, Brienne was savvy enough to know that it could be a comfort or a hindrance, and I appreciated that she wanted my thoughts on the matter rather than making a unilateral decision.
It was still a quick choice—I told her I didn’t want it. I was already having too much impostor syndrome trying to sit on his bench.
They instead gave me a spot seven down from his, and rather than the name Dumelin above mine, they put S. Dumelin so there was no mistaking I’m not my brother.
It was something I appreciated because it kept feelings at bay.
It’s more than I can say for the annoying attorney Harlow Alston who isn’t getting the hint when I ignore her outreach. She sent another email today and has left two voicemails. After the first email, I sent a curt reply basically telling her to leave me out of it. I graciously gave her my parents’ contact information. But she wrote again, saying she didn’t want to speak with my parents, that she had explicit instructions to deal with me.
But I don’t want to deal with her. I don’t want to think about my brother anymore.