Stone (Pittsburgh Titans 2)

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.

So I’m ignoring her.

Whatever is going on with Brooks’s estate is none of my business, and I’ve got no desire to step in to manage it or whatever the fuck she wants me to do. She can get my father on board, and I’m sure he’d be more than glad to dive in. I’m sure he and my mother are the sole beneficiaries anyway, so there’s no reason for me to get involved.

Keller finishes his remarks, and it’s time to go back out on the ice. We’re greeted with a big, formal introduction with strobes, flashing lights, a raucous AC/DC song, and one of the league’s best announcers to whip up the crowd.

I missed this part while down in the minors. We didn’t get this level of fanfare, but at least the hockey was good.

What makes it extra special as I step onto the ice—feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline amping up my excitement and actually morphing that sizzle of nerves into energy—is the fact that my Aunt Bethany is in the stands. She came in from Ithaca yesterday and is staying at my apartment for a few days, insisting she needs to get me adequately set up. Today was spent buying curtains, towels, sheets, and other homey touches that don’t mean anything to me, but it makes her feel good to be able to help.

Of course, giving Bethany a ticket to this game was a no-brainer. I really had to think about what to do with my father’s repetitive requests for tickets. Ultimately, I had to tell him I couldn’t swing it but maybe some other time.

This was followed by repeated demands via text, email, and voicemail wanting to know why, simply not understanding, I didn’t secure season tickets for him already. He wanted to assure me they’d be coming to most of the home games. It’s like they’ve already forgotten Brooks.

I’m starting to understand that it wasn’t necessarily their younger son they decided to focus on to the exclusion of the older so much as they were attracted to his star power and what it could do for them.

It seems I’ve become that surrogate, and it makes my gut burn. My goal is to ignore my father and hope he gets the message and backs off.

As I circle the ice before the national anthem plays, I look around the stands. It’s just a sea of people—anonymous faces—all cheering at the top of their lungs. I have no idea where Bethany’s seat is, but I know she’s here. She texted me when she arrived, having taken an Uber. I was able to get her a pass to come down to the family waiting area after the game, and she’ll ride home with me. No going out and partying afterward, no matter the outcome.

Just a quiet night at home with the one family member who truly matters.

?

We’re scored on within the first twenty-four seconds of the game against the Washington Breakers, and I can’t help but think we’re on our way to a bloodbath. But the fans aren’t put out in the slightest. Normally, an arena will go quiet when the home guys are scored upon, but fuck me… they seem to get louder than they were before the game even started. The fans chant their team’s name: Titans, Titans, Titans.

It’s a battle cry from the fans telling us they’re our seventh player out on the ice, and they aren’t giving up.

Gage skates over to Patrik, has some words, and then motions the rest of the team in while the Breakers celebrate. Gage isn’t our captain—that honor was given to Coen by Coach Keller—but he doesn’t hesitate to show the icy calm that comes from being a veteran in this league.

“Not a big deal,” he says, and it’s not lip service. I can tell he let that goal roll off his back, and he wants us to do the same. “These fans are with us. No matter what, we have them, so let’s show them our resilience. Dig deep, give it your all for them. Got it?”