Stone (Pittsburgh Titans 2)

I smile as I grab my coat from the rack and shrug it on. “You’re the bestest boy. The keeper of my heart. My reason for living.”

I swear the dog rolls his eyes and trots off toward the kitchen where I hear him slurping water from his bowl as I exit my condo.

Locking the door, I head toward the staircase, surprised to see Stone coming down the hall with an empty recycle bin in hand. He must have been emptying it downstairs in the main receptacle as pickup is tomorrow. I haven’t seen him since St. Patrick’s Day, but he’s been in New York for two games.

“There’s the hope and savior of the Titans,” I say with a cheeky smile as we approach each other.

Stone snorts and shakes his head. “Couple of lucky breaks.”

He’s being humble. He played fantastically in New York and is currently the leading scorer on the team since they took to the ice two weeks ago, with Gage Heyward only one point behind him.

I could gush about his play, but I can tell Stone’s not the type to eat it up. His brother was, though. God, Brooks used to glory in the accolades and would strut around like the king of the world after a great game. I loved him for it, just as I admire Stone’s ability to exist without those affirmations. I have a feeling he’s built up that strength over the last few years as the Dumelin family fractured.

A change of subject is in order. “I’m going to send you an email tomorrow with some documents, but I have all the bank and investment accounts transferred into your name. It will be encrypted as I have log-on information and passwords attached. You can change them when you sign in for the first time.”

“Awesome,” he murmurs. “Now I can get my dad paid so he’ll stop calling me wondering where his money is.”

I don’t comment nor ask for added explanation. I would bet my britches, though, that those calls never come with genuine curiosity about how Stone is doing personally.

Instead, I tell him the other good news. “I should have the deeds of trust finished to put the properties in your name later in the week. And I’ve requested a title transfer for the Ferrari.”

“I really appreciate you getting all this done,” he says, but his eyes shift to his door, as if he’s eager to get inside and perhaps out of my presence.

“It’s my job,” I reply with a quick smile, then start to move past him. “Have a great night.”

“Yeah, you too,” he murmurs, but when I’m just a few paces down the hall, he asks, “So, where are you headed tonight?”

I pivot to face him. Stone has one hand in his jeans pocket, his shoulders hunched slightly forward. He seems uncomfortable initiating conversation, yet he looks hopeful at the same time. Almost as if he’s trying to figure out how to be social. I find it endearing.

My answer might set him back and send him scurrying, but honesty is always the best policy. “I’m going to an AA meeting.”

He’s shocked. I figured he would be. Eyebrows shoot up, head pushes forward slightly as his mouth gapes. “AA?”

“Alcoholics Anonymous,” I explain.

Stone’s lips purse as if irritated. “Yes, I know what it means. I just… didn’t know you were a member.”

“Well, it’s not like a social club I wanted to join,” I quip, trying to ease the awkwardness. “But I’ve been in AA for a little over two years now.”

“Um…” Stone’s gaze shifts away, as if he’s horrified he brought this to light.

“It’s okay.” I take a few steps toward him, and his eyes come to mine. “I’m not embarrassed by it. It’s not a secret. I’ve been sober two years, one month, and seventeen days today.”

Stone lets out a long breath. “I’ve never known anyone in AA before. It just took me by surprise.”

“It’s a lot to throw at someone as we’re passing in the hallway.”

“It’s why you said you didn’t drink anymore… at your St. Patrick’s Day get-together,” he says. When I nod, he asks, “But it doesn’t bother you to be around others who drink?”

“Sometimes,” I admit softly. “But those times are few and far between. I had some urges when Brooks died.”

Something passes over Stone’s expression that I can’t identify. “You two were really close.”

A statement.

Not a guess.

“Stone,” I say softly, garnering his attention. “I met Brooks in AA. That’s where our friendship started.”

He takes a step back, as if I somehow slapped him with my words. Shaking his head, that thing in his eyes I couldn’t really identify a moment ago is clear now.

It’s torture.

“I knew nothing about him,” he mutters. Each syllable sounds agonizing.

“You knew plenty,” I assure him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “And he always wanted you to know more, he just didn’t know how. It’s why he wanted you to read the journals.”