“We’d actually like to extend you an offer to join the team. We’ve talked to the GM of the Badgers, and we’ve got a deal worked out. My understanding is you’re not represented right now, so I’m coming to you directly.”

  I almost drive off the road. I lost faith long ago that I’d ever make it back up into the professional league, which is why I don’t have an agent representing me right now. I had accepted that I would retire as a minor league hockey player and was probably looking at doing that sooner rather than later.

  “You had a tremendous career with the Boston Eagles,” Derringer continues, reciting a list of my statistics. “You were the first line left-winger, and you have a Cup championship behind you.”

  Fuck, that was so long ago. Well actually, only four years, but it seems like a lifetime. “I’m not that player anymore, Mr. Derringer. I’m settled into the minors.”

  There’s a long pause, as if he’s attempting to gather his thoughts. When he shares them, he pulls no punches. “You’re the first player I’ve talked to with these offers who wasn’t jumping for joy. It’s almost as if you want to stay where you are.”

  I imagine my lack of enthusiasm is shocking, but I truly can’t find anything to be excited about. Maybe it’s an indication of how far I’ve sunk into mediocrity that I can’t even find simple joy in the prospect of something better.

  I don’t respond to his statement, instead asking a question. “Why me, and is this offer in any way because Brooks played for you?”

  Because fuck if I’m going to be the next big headline for the Pittsburgh organization to show how magnanimous they are.

  “It was a consideration,” he admits bluntly. “But only to the extent we weren’t sure if losing your brother would be an emotional barrier that would prevent you from playing. Our desire to have you on our team has nothing to do with your relation to Brooks but rather your talent and potential.”

  “What exactly is it you are offering, Mr. Derringer?”

  “Please, call me Callum,” he says genially. “Here are the terms of what we’re willing to offer.”

  I settle back and listen to everything he has to say. I believe him when he reiterates that they’re making this offer because they think I can make a major contribution to the team.

  Still, at the end of the conversation, I’m not overly moved.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” I say when he finishes. “When do you need an answer?”

  “Twenty-four hours,” he replies. “Otherwise, the offer goes to the next best left-winger on our list.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Stone

  It’s been eleven days since the Titans’ plane crashed and my brother, Brooks, was killed.

  Four days since we buried him.

  Three days since I accepted the Titans’ offer to come on board and rekindle my professional career.

  I bet some would say it must feel like coming full circle, but it just feels fucking wrong to me.

  My star soared for many years, starting when I was a young boy learning to play hockey.

  Natural talent is what I heard over and over again, and because my father was a hockey player himself, he endeavored to foster my talent. It was the best camps, the best trainers, and lots of pressure from him to perform to perfection. In those days, I was the apple of my father’s eye, and Brooks—two years younger than me—luckily wasn’t browbeaten the way I was.

  My dad took all the credit when I was accepted into a D1 school to play hockey, and he latched onto the limelight when I was drafted to the Boston Eagles. Brooks was ignored, for the most part, even though he had the same talent that I did. We were well-matched in all regards. In fact, Brooks essentially followed my path.

  He, too, played D1 hockey and was drafted to the Titans. My father was happier than a pig in shit, and he for sure took all the credit for my brother’s accomplishments. Brooks and I would laugh about it over beers and mimic my dad and his insatiable need for the spotlight.

  When I was twenty-three, the Boston Eagles won the Cup. When it was my turn to have the Cup with me for the day, I threw a party at my home in Boston. It was Brooks’s last year in college, and I told him it would only be a matter of time before he was able to hoist the coveted trophy above his head, so sure I was of his talent and determination.

  Of course, we laughed because my dad pretty much clung to the Cup throughout the entire party and had my mom take a zillion pictures of him with it.

  Those were the last happy days I remember. The next training camp, I injured my shoulder, and it was the start of a downward spiral. While Brooks’s star started to shine brighter, I had a hard time coming back from the injury.

  I was out for months but came back to the Eagles, only to injure it again. After another rehab, I came back but wasn’t stable enough to even make the third-line cut.

  At age twenty-six, my star dimmed, and I was sent down to the minors.

  Can’t say that my father really noticed, though. After my injury, he’d jumped on Brooks’s bandwagon and never looked back at his injured son struggling to save his career.

  It built resentment inside me, leveled mostly at my father for being so self-centered he couldn’t be just a father, and then toward my mother who parroted him in all ways. Lastly, I resented Brooks because after years of being number two, he was now finally number one, and he loved the attention from our dad. We no longer laughed over beers about Dad’s antics, and instead, Brooks staunchly defended him anytime I complained. I suppose he suffered from not having that fatherly attention all those years growing up and needed the validation.

  It unfortunately caused a rift between us, and over time, we barely spoke to each other. Brooks was a star on the Titans, the second-leading scorer at left wing behind Coen Highsmith.

  Me?

  I played for the Cleveland Badgers, earning a whopping $92,000 a year, quite the decline from my $3 million contract with the Eagles. When I left the pros, so too did the endorsements. I was pretty much a has-been trying to hang on to a dying career. Even though I’d completely recovered from my shoulder injury and was as strong as ever, no one really remembered who Stone Dumelin was, indicating my star had completely fizzled.

  Now… I’m back in the top tier with a lucrative contract freshly signed. I should be celebrating my luck, and yet, all I can think about is how fucking wrong it feels.

  I arrived in Pittsburgh yesterday and moved right into a cheap, furnished apartment Aunt Bethany helped me find while I scrambled to close down my life in Cleveland. I can afford more, but I’m not interested. I’ve had the wealth and glamour, and I know how unimportant it is.

  I also know how fleeting it can be, so I’m banking all my money and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  The Titans’ arena has always been one of my favorites to play in, and now that it’s my official place of employment, I came early today to take a better look around. Callum Derringer had front office staff prepared to give tours to all the incoming players, which was a major influx of new people to accommodate. The facilities are top-notch and luxurious, and I can say it doesn’t suck to have such nice conditions.

  Currently, I’m sitting in what is aptly called the Bowl. It’s the team’s meeting room shaped, well, like a bowl. Circular rows of plush chairs rise up from the center floor with large digital screens all around the top for us to watch video.

  We’ve been summoned to our first meeting as the new team, and my stomach is in knots. I wonder if I’ve made a mistake because I feel like a fraud.

  Glancing around, I see some familiar faces. Gage Heyward is a veteran player, and we’ve played against each other. He’s well-respected, and I expect that’s why he’s on the team.

  Coen Highsmith is another one, highly recognizable as a member of what has been referred to as the Lucky Three.

  They’re the three Titans players who weren’t on the doomed plane: Coen, due to the flu, and the other two, Camden Poe and Hendrix Bateman, due to minor injuries.

  Camden and Hendrix are sitting together, but Coen is off by himself in the last row opposite me. He’s slumped in his chair, surfing his phone. Definitely unapproachable, but I figure the guy has a lot of fucking weight on his shoulders.

  Most of the other guys are up from the minors, and I know them from my stint there as well. Not anyone I know well, though, as relationships don’t seem to foster as thickly at that level as they do in the pros.

  More players straggle in, and I take the opportunity to check my messages. Yesterday I let Bethany know I had arrived safe and sound. It’s nice to have her worry over me. She made me promise to call after my first day to tell her all the details, and I’ll do that later tonight when I get to my apartment.

  I can’t help the irritation that comes with merely seeing my dad’s name in my texts. The man has barely paid attention to me in three years—since I lost my footing with the Eagles—and didn’t try to offer any solace when Brooks died.

  Now he won’t leave me the fuck alone.

  Now that I’m on a professional team again.

  His latest message is offensive. Let me know when you get family tickets. Mom and I will fly to as many games as we can if you can help us with the tickets. Otherwise, we’ll drive.

  That’s it. No checking to see how I’m doing, no supportive words, no affirmation. Just wanting to know when he can be a hockey dad again now that Brooks is dead.

  Fuck him.

  I turn off my phone just as one of the doors opens and Brienne Norcross strolls in with Callum Derringer behind her. I’d noticed the coaches were already seated in the front row, and I had a chance to talk to all of them when I arrived earlier. Even the goalie coach, Baden Oulett, made a point of introducing himself, although we won’t really be working together.

  The room was mostly quiet before, none of the players openly talking. Now it’s dead silent as the Titans’ owner, Brienne Norcross, moves to the center. I realize that she and I have something in common… we both lost siblings on the plane. I haven’t had the chance to meet her yet, but she sent me a nice welcome email after I accepted the offer and also extended her condolences.

  Brienne makes a sound low in her throat, perhaps clearing it. She looks nervous, but determined. “Gentlemen… you must know first that I owe every one of you an apology.”

  I jolt in surprise—that is not what I expected for the opening line from the owner. I look left and right and see I’m not the only one perplexed by this.

  But then she goes on to tell us that she is going to make mistakes, and she would ask us to bear with her.

  Give her grace is what she requests.

  In as humble a fashion as any multibillionaire can, she proclaims we will move forward as a team and that she will be there for us. She has put herself down on our level and let us know that whatever fumbles we have, we’ll do them together.

  Her speech is refreshing, and frankly, a little inspiring. For the first time since I accepted their offer, I actually think I could enjoy being on this team.

  Apparently, the others think the same as she gets a thunderous roar of approval from the men.

  She then hands the reins over to Callum, who follows her with a speech just as refreshing and classy. Also humble, also asking that we give him an honest shot to be a better general manager than he was before. I like that he admits his flaws. It makes me respect him more.

  He, too, gets approval from the team, and I’m clapping hard when he finishes.

  “One last housekeeping matter, then I’m going to give the floor to Coach Keller.” Callum pushes his hands into his pockets, giving a slow three-sixty to look at all the players. “As you know, the league has voted in a points freeze retroactively to the plane crash, and we have four days to get in some shape to step out on the ice and reenter competitive play. The league just announced that they’re giving an allowance to the Titans that any trades made going forward will not be penalized by making players sit out of the playoffs.”

  There’s a lot of shuffling and murmuring at this announcement. On its face, it appears to be a generous allowance the league is making, but it has repercussions.

  It means that just as soon as we arrived here, we could easily be traded, because we won’t be penalized in the playoffs. I could find myself back down in the minors before I even have a chance to make my bed in my cheap little apartment.

  Callum holds up his hands, asking for silence. “I know this might cause some distress, as many of you just got your call-up from the minors and you don’t want anything interfering with your shot to make it in this league. While the chances are slim, it’s possible someone could offer for one of you and then release you back to the minors. Brienne Norcross has made a commitment not to release any of you from your contracts this year. She wants your shot to be a good one, and you can’t do that with fear of that shot ending hanging over you. It doesn’t matter if a great opportunity comes our way. We are not going to sacrifice a single player in this room.”

  Jesus.

  Brienne Norcross is making a major concession to give all the players new to the team security for the rest of the season—a decision that could cost her money, especially if we suck. She’s promising that no matter what, the men in this room are safe for the remainder of the hockey season.

  This is well received by the players, and there’s another round of clapping and cheering. I’m wondering why Brienne didn’t tell us this news herself, since it’s obviously her decision and she should take credit.

  That probably speaks to the fact that she’s a true team player, earning her even more of my respect.

  The knots in my stomach at the beginning of this meeting have loosened, and I look forward to what Coach Keller has to say as he takes center stage.

  Matt Keller is, by all accounts, a great coach on paper. He’s fresh off a D1 national championship, and while a move to the pros is a bit of a big step, I’m assuming there weren’t a lot of qualified candidates. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, because I’ve already bought into Brienne’s and Callum’s values—but he starts off poorly.

  We’re first treated to a long-winded biography of his accomplishments, and it’s clear he’s trying to make sure he’s qualified in our eyes. It’s overkill as he won’t shut up about how much of a genius he was to win a national championship. He spouts ideals of fraternity and loyalty, which sound good on the surface, but those are things that have to be proven.

  So when he says, “You show your loyalty to me, and you’ll have mine in return,” it doesn’t sit well with me.

  Looking around at the hardened expressions on some of the other players’ faces, I can tell it doesn’t sit well at all with the whole.

  “Now,” he says, seemingly ready to wind down his speech, “we are going to be family to each other. But we’re all relative strangers as of this day. I want to change that. So we’re going to go around the room, and I want each player to stand up and tell us a little about yourself. Maybe share a bit about your background and what led you here today. I’ve had the fortune of studying your bios, and I feel like I know each of you pretty well. But we need to share that with the others, so how about you there in the front row… Andrei Komokov.”

  A young blond man warily stands, looking around before introducing himself in a thick Russian accent. His English is quite good, but his words are short, speaking more to his discomfort with being put on the spot like this.

  Keller doesn’t seem to understand that was painful as he calls another player to stand, and then another. Most of these guys are truly making a step upward, but they’re nervous, and they realize they’re here only because of a horrible tragedy. None of them want to express elation over this opportunity, and yet Keller seems to want to hear that gratitude.

  “Stone Dumelin,” Keller calls as his eyes search the room.

  I mutter a curse as I rise from my chair, and the movement catches Keller’s eye. He smiles as if we’re old friends. “Tell everyone about yourself, Stone.”

  “Stone Dumelin, left-winger. Played for the Eagles out of college, had some shoulder issues and bounced back and forth between them and the minors. Been with the Cleveland Badgers for the last year.”

  I start to lower into my seat, but Matt stops me cold. “And what do you think your driving force is to be here?”

  Rage slices through me, and it takes all my effort not to leap rows to get down to his level where I’d like to plant my fist in his smug fucking face.

  I rein it in, though, suck air through my nostrils, and let it out in a growl. “I’d say the driving force is the fact that my brother was on the plane. His death gave me a shot at the big leagues. Fortuitous, some would say. Don’t you think?”

  Tension sizzles through the room, and a few players murmur to one another. Keller’s face goes white, and I can tell he didn’t connect me to Brooks, despite the fact I know he knows my brother died in the crash. I think he had a major brain fart when he had this glorious idea for us to share our feelings.

  “Fuck,” Keller mumbles, ducking his head sheepishly. “I’m so sorry. I got you confused with someone else, Stone.”

  That’s even fucking worse. Jesus… did he not know the names of the players who died? Was he not told who I am?

  Questions I’d probably have the right to ask this very minute, but for some of the men here, this is their shot at the big leagues, and I don’t want to ruin it for them. I want them to have faith in this man. But as of this moment, I’ve decided I hate the bastard.

  I sink down into my chair, not accepting his apology. Keller stammers, looking around for another victim to call upon.

  “Highsmith.” Keller looks at Coen Highsmith expectantly. “Stand up and tell the team about yourself.”

  I don’t know much about this dude other than he’s really talented and brash, but that describes so many players in this league.

  Coen shows the first signs of active rebellion and refuses to stand. In fact, he seems to slouch even more, as if he wants to be anywhere but here.