Mitchell's Power Play

Marshall

SAMMY

Meeting Mitchell's siblings was even worse than I had expected it'd be, and my expectations had been low. Like ant height low.

Marshall, Mitchell's older brother, had his similar coloring - dark blondish hair and light blue eyes - and a similar height, but that was where the resemblance ended. Marshall's stance was standoffish, and he came off as cold and calculated. Nothing at all like Mitch's open and humorous personality. He glared at us the minute we walked into the small dingy hall where he was in the process of discussing the burial of their father.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Were the first words out of his mouth, like Mitch had committed some heinous crime, instead of him wanting to take part in the plan of putting their father to rest.

I immediately felt Mitch tense next to me and gave his hand a quick squeeze, letting him know I was there for him.

"I heard dad died."

"D'fuck told you that?" Marshall snapped back while he kept glaring at us.

Now, I could glare too. I'm pretty sure I could keep up with the best of them, but I tried to keep my cool for Mitchell's sake. I also knew that had the person doing the glaring been anyone but Mitchell's own brother, it wouldn't have affected him at all. He was used to that, and trash talk, on the ice.

"It doesn't matter," Mitch responded, but I could tell he had more he wanted to say. But opposite from his brother, Mitch knew there was a time and place for everything, and airing the dirty laundry at the funeral home was not the place.

"Does too. He didn't want you here. He wanted nothing to do with you at all."

"Okay."

Mitchell's short answer seemed to piss his brother off even more. His voice rose as he said; "why don't you just turn around and get the fuck out of here?"

"Marshall," Mitch began, but got cut off by his irate brother.

"No," he said and took a couple of steps in Mitchell's direction, "leave."

I'm not sure Mitchell even realized what he did but as soon as his brother stepped towards him he got into his defensive stand, the way he would on the ice, feet slightly apart, shoulders back and eyes laser focused on the perceived threat.

"Nobody wants you here," his brother continued, although he stopped a few feet away.

"Clearly," Mitchell responded, "I think that's pretty clear since nobody bothered to let me know dad was even sick."

Marshall's face morphed into a cruel smirk. "He didn't want you to know. He didn't need you because he had everything he needed right here."

Mitchell just nodded, and I bit down on my bottom lip to keep quiet.

How the hell could one sibling be so completely different from the other?

"Just leave, Mitch. Running away is what you do best, anyway. "

"I didn't run away," Mitch answered calmly, but I could tell he was getting both upset and frustrated. "I left for college and then I got drafted."

"Same fucking thing. And now you show up thinking you're too good for everyone around here."

"It's called having a job, Marshall," Mitch snapped back, a little more heat in this tone that time, all while the funeral home employee's head kept turning between them like a ping-pong ball.

Marshall snorted arrogantly. "So go back to your fucking job. You're not wanted around here."

"I can see that, but I guess it's okay to ask me for the money I make playing hockey. It might not have been the job dad wanted for me, but it sure as hell didn't stop either of you from using it to pay for things."