I connect the call, more to keep me awake during this last leg of my trip than anything. “Hello?”
“I’m looking for Stone Dumelin,” says a man with a deep timbre, unrecognizable to me.
“You got him,” I reply, trying to suppress another yawn.
“Stone… this is Callum Derringer.” That perks me up, and I sit straighter in my seat because Callum Derringer is a name everyone knows—former general manager of the Ottawa Cougars who was fired for failure to produce a winning team. “It’s not been released to the news yet, but the Titans have hired me as their new GM. I’m working closely with Brienne Norcross and a new coaching staff to put together a team to get back on the ice.”
I’m only momentarily shocked by this news. The plane crash was but a week ago, and many people are still mourning. We just buried my brother today.
But there’s a part of me that’s not surprised by the organization’s quick movement. I know the hockey industry well. While I might currently play in the minors for the Cleveland Badgers, I used to play in the majors. As a first-round draft pick, I went from college to the Boston Eagles where I played for a handful of years, even winning a Cup championship with them when I was twenty-three.
I understand that professional hockey is a for-profit industry, and without a team on the ice, everyone will lose millions. It’s not just the Norcross family—owners of the Titans—who will lose out, but also all the vendors, merchandisers, fans, and ticket holders. The city of Pittsburgh makes money off the brand and tourism. It’s an intricate web of codependency to keep everyone successful, and until the Titans get back into the game, everyone loses.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Derringer?” I’m assuming this has something to do with Brooks, although I don’t understand why he’s calling me rather than my father. He’s made himself the mouthpiece for our family’s tragedy.
“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.