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)
I hold up the journal, frowning. “Did you read this?”
“No. Figured his sons might want to, though. I didn’t want to intrude into the man’s private thoughts. Felt bad enough stepping into his shoes with that family so raw.”
We dig through the box, finding more treasures: ticket stubs, a cracked helmet, and a jersey still marked with blood from a fight on the ice. We finish breakfast, then set up the old DVD player in the living room to watch one of the games.
The dated footage flickers to life, and there he is: Carl Drayton, skating with effortless grace, commanding the ice.
“That man was unstoppable,” Dad murmurs. “Until he wasn’t.”
The game progresses, and it strikes me that Jacob plays a lot like his father; aggressive but with so much fluid ease that it polishes off his sharp edges.
“How old was I when he played this game?” I ask.
Dad rubs his chin and picks up the sleeve. “You were seven, honey.”
That would have made the boys ten.
I’m not prepared for the moment when everything changes: a brutal collision at center ice, Carl’s head rebounded from a defender’s knee onto the ice, his crumpled, unmoving body, the silence of the arena as his team panics around him and medics rush onto the ice.
I press a hand to my mouth. “Does he get up?”
“No,” Dad says grimly, pausing it. “They take him off on a stretcher.”
“Concussion?”
“Most definitely, although I always suspected the diagnosis was downplayed. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.”
“He played again, though, right?”
“Sure. He played again but lost his edge. There was just enough of a flicker of hesitation for the opposition to defend against him. He retired not long after this to spend more time with his family. I remember the press conference. He seemed miserable about the decision… Well, his words didn’t match his body language. I always wondered…”
“What?”
He sighs, leaning back. “If it was really about them—or if he just couldn’t face the ice anymore. Concussions can mess with your head. Your emotions, your personality... everything.”
I think of the Drayton triplets and how closed off they were when we lived together. The loss of their father had had a profound impact on them. They’re different now, with a certain swagger that I assume has come from their on-ice success. They’ve separated themselves from their roots and their past, so will they even want this stuff?
“They’ve lost their way,” I say. “Without a good role model. It’s a shame you didn’t get to be that for them.”
“It wouldn’t have worked,” Dad says. “And it was better for you this way. Their demands would have swamped you.”
“How?”
“Hockey came first,” he says. “Anything important to you would have always been secondary. I’m glad it was just us after that. I got to be your dad, and you got to blossom into the amazing woman you are today.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say softly. We don’t talk like this very often, but I guess our journey into the past has made him reflective.
“Shall I give them this stuff?” I ask.
“Are they ready?”
“I don’t know.” I rub the crease between my eyebrows, considering the Jacob, Shawn, and Hayes I’ve been exposed to now. They’re forward-facing, eyes on the future while they make the most of the present. Being forced to look back at the past, when it holds a lot of darkness, isn’t easy.
“I trust you to decide when they are.” He pats my knee, and I glance at the jersey spread over the top of the box, with Drayton in white.
My mind swirls with questions and uncertainty. This box isn’t just their father’s legacy—it’s a key to understanding the man who shaped them, for better or worse.
And somehow, it’s up to me to decide what to do with it.
***
“Come hang out with us,” Imani yells down the phone.
“Where are you?”
She sounds tipsy, and music plays in the background.
“Malik’s. I called Katerina, and she’s coming. And Vi and Freya.”
“I don’t know.” I look down at my stretched-out sweats and fluffy socks.
“Just throw on some jeans and come,” she pleads like she’s looking at me through the phone and knows my outfit concerns. “I don’t want to be alone with all these dudes. They keep talking about sports, and I’m DYING.” Her theatrical yawn is so loud I pull the phone from my ear.
“COME,” Malik yells in the background. “And bring snacks.”
“Yeah,” Imani says. “The snacks are disappearing like there are T-Rexes up in here.”
“I’m hung like a dinosaur,” a deep voice bellows in the background.
“Yeah, a Microraptor!” someone else yells.
“What the fuck is that?” Imani asks. “Actually, forget it. I get the micro reference. Riley, come and save me. These guys are obsessed with their dicks, and I can’t stand another conversation about which superhero is the baddest because NONE OF THEM ARE. THEY’RE FICTIONAL! AND ONLY GEEKS GIVE A SHIT!”