Stone, page 3
He stares at Keller, who swallows hard. His voice is lazy, almost nonplussed. “I think everyone here knows who I am. One of the Lucky Three.”
A pointed reminder that not everyone from the former team died in the plane disaster. And by the tone of his voice, I’m guessing he’s going to be battling some ghosts.
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.”
“What is it this time?” I ask, still flipping through my mail. A legal pleading I’d been waiting on catches my eye and I pull it out to start reading.
“DWI,” she replies. “His grandfather bailed him out. Hearing is next month.”
“Thousand-dollar retainer,” I reply automatically. “Have him come in and meet me the week before the hearing.”
Bonita punches the button to reconnect the call. I pick up the mail and take it back into my office to review.
The big, shaggy beast lying in the corner raises his head to look at me.
“Do you need to go potty?” I ask him. Bonita usually handles the honors when I’m deep into my work, but since I’m up…
My dog blinks, rests his head back down with a sigh, and closes his droopy eyes.
“Lazy man,” I chide, but that’s my Odin. The biggest, fluffiest, laziest Bernese Mountain Dog in the world. Bonita once told me that the only reason he’s lazy is because I sit on my ass all day to work and that he’s taken on my personality.
Also, another perk of owning your own firm—you get to bring your dog to the office, something I never could’ve done when I worked at my father’s law firm. Despite the fact he’s a dog lover too, also owning two Bernese Mountain Dogs, he’s a firm believer that they don’t belong in a professional setting.
Settling into my chair, I kick my booted feet up onto my desk. Speaking of perks, one of the best of owning my own firm? I make the rules, and my most favorite is that I can wear whatever the hell I want to practice law.
Today it’s rag & bone dark-washed, boot-cut jeans, a crisp white button-up shirt with a long, pointed collar, and a cashmere shawl in navy blue. My camel-colored Stuart Weitzman ankle boots are buttery soft with a gold-plated, three-inch heel.
Even though the total cost of today’s wardrobe is probably close to nine hundred dollars, my family would have an absolute conniption fit to see me dressed this way while practicing the prestigious career of law.
It’s why I don’t practice with them across the river in one of the modern buildings built of glass and chrome. The Alston Law Group is a family affair, consisting of my grandfather, my father, my aunt, my brother, and three cousins. Sure, there are non-Alston attorneys there, but they’re grunge workers and will never own a piece of the pie. They basically come in, get the experience and a coveted line on their résumé, and then they move on.
I tried my hand at business and contract law with my dad proudly accepting me into the ranks. But it wasn’t for me, and now I’m that lawyer across the river who helps poor people.
My family likes to give me hell about it, and while they still routinely try to get me to give up this slog and join them again, they also know I’m incredibly happy on the path I’ve chosen.
Is it hard work?
Hell yes. Sixty to eighty hours a week, and I can’t remember the last time I took a vacation.
Do I make a lot of money?
Hell no. Owning your own law firm is a grind, and there are too many attorneys and not enough clients. Luckily, the Alstons are old money spanning generations, so I’m a trust-fund kid. It launched my law firm, and now I use it to buy my fancy clothes and pay my fancy mortgage. It lets me serve the poorer masses at discounted rates. Troubled Charlie Bitterman will pinch and scrape up that thousand-dollar retainer, knowing that’s all I’ll charge him, and knowing it’s about eighty percent cheaper than other lawyers.
What he doesn’t know is that it won’t go into my pocket. It will go into the operating fund to help pay for my office lease here in Allegheny West, Bonita’s salary and benefits, as well as a modest amount into social media advertising. Truth of the matter is, though, most of my clients come from personal referrals, or they’re repeat offenders—like Charlie.
I read the pleading that had caught my attention, scoffing at the defendant’s motion to dismiss before putting it aside to look at in more detail. It’s going to take some research, and I’ll probably work on it tonight at home.
Some bills, a thank-you card from a satisfied client I helped out of foreclosure, and junk mail that killed at least a tree or two in its creation.
After tossing them into the trash can, I look down at the last piece of mail in my hand, an unopened, nine-by-twelve manila envelope. Bonita has carte blanche to open all my mail, but she didn’t open this one, and it’s because she saw who sent it.
Brooks Dumelin.
The tears immediately well in my eyes, and I grasp the envelope against my chest. I have no clue why something has been sent from him, but it’s clearly his handwriting. That’s his name and address in the upper left-hand corner.
I pull the envelope back and look at it. It’s fairly thick and postmarked yesterday, sent from Pittsburgh.
Brooks died eleven days ago. I just attended his memorial in Ithaca, New York, four days ago. I sat in the back of the church and stood at the back of the mourners, watching as his brokenhearted family grieved.
I grieved right along with them, just as I grieve now.
“Damn you,” I murmur low, knowing my words will reach Brooks up in Heaven. “Why are you plaguing me? I’d just shed the last of my tears, you jerk.”
I can almost hear him laughing … he truly enjoyed irritating me.
Swinging my feet off my desk, I reach into my middle drawer for the letter opener. I make an efficient slit in the top and with shaking hands pull out a thick sheaf of papers.
On top is a handwritten letter from Brooks, and it charms me that he took the time to do it. Who handwrites stuff these days? It’s much faster to type.
The letter is dated last September 28. Five months ago.
Dear Little Bit …
His nickname for me, because I always took things in small increments. He was Big Bit, because he went big on everything.
I know this letter is going to come as a shock, and you’re probably going to be pissed as hell at me, but I’m hoping you’ll forgive the favor I’m about to ask.
Enclosed with this letter is my Revocable Trust with a Last Will and Testament I had an attorney draw up for me. This is probably something that’ll never come to pass, as I hope to live a very long life complete with grandkids and rocking chairs, but God forbid something does happen before then, I wanted to make sure things were taken care of. I want you to handle my estate.
No, I need you to handle my estate because, as you well know, it’s going to be a bitch.
I know I should ask your permission first, even though I know you’ll say yes, but the truth is, I’m almost too embarrassed to put this on your shoulders. If you receive this letter, it means I’m dead and beyond embarrassment, so that’s some solace, I suppose. I’ve asked the attorney who drafted these documents to mail them to you after my funeral.
I trust you to make sure my wishes are carried out. I’ve made you the trustee because I know there’s going to be dissension among family members over this, and I know you’re strong enough to make sure what needs to be done is done. You’ll know what I mean when you read the documents.
We’ve talked about it enough, so I know this probably won’t be a shock. More importantly than the trust, though… I need you to make sure he gets the journals. Please make him read them.
He’s going to fight you every step of the way.
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.
