Triumph {The Manhattan Trilogy #3}

Museum (NT)

"...New York Rangers goal, his first of the season, scored by number 22, Brian Boyle. Assisted by..."

"Are you still watching the videos of that game?" My twin sister, South Tower Staten, laughs. We are walking together through the place where we are assistant managers, the 9/11 Memorial and Museum. "It was a whole six seasons ago."

"It was a good game!" I argue, shoving her playfully. "We got to go all the way to Vancouver to see our Rangers. And not only that, but they won by a score four to nothing. Plus, I still cannot believe Boyle got traded to New Jersey. Like, disgusting!"

"Ugh," I grunt in dismay just as screams of delight go up at the front of the building.

"The hell?" My sister raises her eyebrows, walking over to a huge crowd that has gathered near the entrance.

"Excuse me, we work here," I shout as we push through the crowd. "Everyone, stay back! Who's causing all the racket up here?"

"Me," says a familiar voice. I look up and spot one of my best friends, Kevin Shattenkirk!

"Shatty! How are you?" My sister high-fives the NHL player. "Why's everyone like you so much all of a sudden? You play for the Capitals, and people hate them here in New York City."

"No I don't, Five-Holey Goalie," he protests, holding up his cell phone while calling my sister her old junior hockey nickname. There is an NHL article displayed on the phone, and it reads, Capitals Free Agent Shattenkirk Signs With Rangers.

"Oh my God, you're a New York Ranger!" I shout, pumping my fists in the air. "It's finally come true! Kevin Shattenkirk on the Rangers! I've dreamed about this since I first met you while playing with the NYJHL! How do you feel, fellow New Yorker?"

"I'm super excited about the new opportunity," Shattenkirk confesses as the crowd listens intently. "New York City is a beautiful place, and I can't wait to score for one of its two great teams. I've wanted to do this since a very young age, you know. By the way, my wife and I want to go through the museum. When does the next tour leave, do you know?"

"Well," I say, "it was supposed to be at noon, but no one signed up. Do you and Mrs. Shattenkirk want to do the noon tour led by my sister and I?"

"Absolutely!" Kevin exclaims. He motions for his wife, who is on her phone in the corner, to come over to him. He turns to her and says, "Dee, meet my friends from my days with the Newburgh Blues. They are actually the souls of the Twin Towers. North Tower here was the captain of the Manhattan Jets, and South Tower was their star goaltender. They were wondering if the two of us wanted a tour of the museum at twelve noon."

"Of course!" The pretty woman, who appears to be around my age, shakes the hands of my sister and I. "Hello. It's nice to meet you both. North Tower, I hear you scored quite a lot on my husband's team in your junior days."

I laugh as we begin walking towards the first exhibits. "Sorry, it was just my job. So, this is the beginning of the museum. This is the last picture taken where the building selves of my sister and I were still standing tall and proud, not up in flames yet. It was taken by the photographer at around 8:22 in the morning on September 11, 2001."

"It's a very beautiful picture, you two," Kevin Shattenkirk mumbles, reading the text that is on a small gray plaque next to the picture.

"What is this thing over here?" His wife questions, crossing the room.

"Oh, that?" I walk over to her, my sister and Kevin close behind me. "That is a piece of severely bent steel from my ninety-third to ninety-ninth floors, which is where the plane hit. See how curved and twisted it became from the impact?"

"That is so interesting," she responds. "May I touch it?"

"Yes, you are allowed to touch this exhibit," I inform her. She reaches one hand out and rests it against the cold steel, reliving the events that brought my sister and me down.

"There is also a piece of steel from several of my impacted floors," South Tower signals to another piece of metal. "First, though, I need you to check out what I believe is the most powerful exhibit out of all of the ones in here. This is an electronic screen that displays thousands of missing posters a day. Loved ones hung these up all around the streets nearest to the World Trade Center site. These people were never seen alive again."

"That's just awful," Mrs. Shattenkirk crosses her arms as she observes posters appear and fade. "I can't believe there are some people in the world that are sick-minded enough to want to do something like this. Look at all those husbands, fathers, wives, mothers, siblings...suddenly killed when they had absolutely nothing to be killed for."

"It's a truly terrible thing," adds her husband, resting his arm on her shoulder. "I was still in New Rochelle when it happened. I couldn't believe my ears or my eyes, especially since I knew that the human souls of those buildings would be playing in my league in three days."

"It certainly is a awful, terrible thing," I look down at my feet as I lead them towards the next exhibit, bumping right into my husband of two years when I turn the corner.

"North Tower!" He gasps, his eyes lighting up as a smile inevitably spreads across his face. "I was just looking for you. United 175 is over there, too, South Tower. And the Shattenkirks! How nice to see you after so many years."

I close my eyes and kiss American 11 on the lips. "You guys can join our tour, if you would like to. There's no one else on it right now except these two."

"That sounds like a terrific idea," American 11 squeezes my hand, then becomes engaged in an animated conversation about his favorite football team, the New England Patriots, with Kevin Shattenkirk.

As we tour the rest of the museum together, my phone alerts me of three new notifications. I have been getting offers from nearby professional hockey teams since I graduated from the New York Junior Hockey League in 2008. Although I retired from playing the sport as a living nine years ago, I still attend a practice or play for a random beer league team every once in a while. Every few times a scouting director will come and observe, and their team will extend an offer of a contract to me.

Dear North Tower Staten, the Lackawanna Yellow Jackets of the New York Hockey League have offered you a one-year, $3 million contract.

I narrow my eyes, suddenly overcome with an overwhelming urge to return to playing professional hockey. But how will I do that, having committed to teaching people about the day I fell for the rest of my existence?