Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
We say our goodbyes without the usual physical affection and step outside into the brisk afternoon air, the weight of the conversation still lingering in the pit of my stomach.
When we’re finally on the road, Shawn lets out a low whistle.
“That went... better than I expected.”
“Barely,” Hayes mutters, his hands gripping the wheel tightly.
“Tom’s right,” I say, staring out the window. “We’ve got a lot to prove. To him. To Riley. To everyone.”
Hayes glances at me in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. “Then we start tonight.”
The game looms ahead of us, but the press statement carries just as much importance, and the weight of both triggers the first hot spasms behind my temple.
Fuck. I don’t want to play with a headache. I can’t fucking deal with the press with a vice tightening around my head. I need to get home, and I need more pills.
***
The crowd’s roar is deafening, vibrating the air and pulsing through my veins. Every pass, every hit is magnified, driving us forward and keeping us focused on the win that’s within our grasp.
The puck drops, and I lock eyes with Guy Aubert, the smug center from the rival team. His grin is a razor-sharp precursor to the taunts I know he’ll throw before he even opens his mouth.
“How’s the girlfriend”? he drawls as we bump shoulders, sticks clattering for the puck. “I heard she loves a spit roast.”
I grit my teeth and focus on the puck. Don’t take the bait. Don’t give him what he wants.
I swipe for possession, but Aubert doesn’t let up. He’s on my heels, chirping with every stride.
“Must be tough sharing, huh? Watching your brothers fuck her better than you can. What’s that like? Sticking your dick in your brother’s cum?”
My blood turns to ice.
I smash him into the boards harder than I probably should, and the ref’s whistle blows, but Aubert just laughs, shoving me back.
“Easy, Drayton. Don’t want to end up in the penalty box when your team needs you. Oh, wait... That’s right. That’s the Drayton way. Can’t handle the pressure. Maybe you should quit like your dad before you embarrass yourself.”
The world narrows just to me and him.
I drop my gloves before I realize what I’m doing, my fist connecting with his jaw in a satisfying crack. He stumbles, but I don’t stop. I’m swinging before the refs can pull me off, blind with rage as his words echo in my head.
“Jacob Drayton, two minutes for roughing,” the ref barks, hauling me toward the box.
The crowd goes wild, but my head is pounding, my vision tunneling as I flop down into the box, slamming my stick against the boards.
Stupid. Reckless. Exactly what Aubert wanted. Exactly what we knew was coming.
By the time my penalty is over, the game is tied. The bench is tense; everyone is hyper-focused on the clock as it ticks down.
“Keep your head in the game,” Hayes mutters as I hop over the boards. “Don’t let him get to you.”
I nod, swallowing down the anger still burning in my throat. This isn’t about Aubert. This is about winning. To show all the doubters. To prove I’m nothing like Carl Drayton. To show Riley we’re worth the anguish and humiliation.
It all rests on my shoulders.
The puck comes my way, and I dig deep, skating harder than I have all night. A clean pass to Skarsgard, who threads it back to me as we cross the blue line. The goalie is ready, crouched low, but I don’t hesitate.
The puck rockets off my stick and into the top corner of the net.
The sweet sound of the blaring goal horn vibrates in my skull, and the crowd erupts. My teammates swarm me, their gloves pounding my back as I suck in a shaky breath. Skarsgard smashes helmets and my brain screams with pain.
We’ve done it. I should be buzzing, so why does everything feel on the brink of falling apart?
33
HAYES
The locker room a chaotic mix of victory chants and clattering gear as reporters shove microphones in our faces. I’m still catching my breath when someone calls my name.
“Hayes, Jacob, Shawn! Over here!”
I turn as Julia Conran, a reporter renowned for questions that spear, flanked by her camera crew, approaches.
“Big win tonight, boys. How does it feel knowing you’ve silenced the critics who say you’re living in your father’s shadow?” She’s looking directly at Jacob, her mic in his direction.
My jaw tightens, and I glance at Jacob, but before he can answer, she presses on.
“And speaking of critics, there’s been a lot of buzz about your relationship with a freshman, Riley Johnstone. Is it true you’re all dating the same girl?”
“Riley’s not a girl,” I say. “She’s a woman. And we’d ask that the media and hockey fans respect her right to privacy and keep the speculation to a minimum.”