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)
But now, as I sit in the locker room, the ache behind my eyes returns with a vengeance. It’s not just a dull throb this time—it’s a pounding, relentless beat that matches the rhythm of my heart. I keep my head down, my elbows resting on my knees as I try to breathe through it.
“You good?” Shawn drops onto the bench beside me. His hair is still damp from the shower and his smile carries an uncomfortable brightness.
“Yeah,” I lie, forcing a smirk that hurts my face. “Carried the team again. You know how it is.”
He rolls his eyes. “You get one write-up calling you the team’s ‘offensive backbone,’ and now you’re insufferable. Riley was right.”
I grunt a laugh, but it costs me. Even that tiny sound makes the pounding worse. “You’re just jealous because I’m prettier and more talented.”
“More modest, for sure,” he says dryly.
Shawn doesn’t press, and I’m grateful. He’s observant enough to know when to back off. I can handle a lot—body checks, chirping, the pressure of being the guy everyone expects to deliver—but this headache is like my skull splitting open, and the last thing I need is an interrogation about it.
When Shawn’s busy dressing, I rub the back of my neck and my temple, then stand, heading for the showers. The hot water doesn’t help in the way I’d hoped. If anything, the steam and water pounding on my skull only make it worse.
The pills in my coat pocket whisper like the devil on my shoulder, promising some relief. If Riley was here, her fingers in my hair could soothe me. Her body could take away the pain for a little while. But she’s not.
Before Shawn returns from the shower, I toss two pills into my mouth and swallow them down with a gulp of water, hating the buzz of anticipation that surges through my body. All I want is that cool sensation that trickles through my brain, wiping out the agony and leaving just an empty echo in its wake, but there’s something else behind that I know is a deeper craving for the pills that is getting harder and harder to control. My heart flutters in a way that feels almost like fear, but I take a few deep breaths, forcing it back down.
I’m buttoning up my shirt with my eyes closed when the locker room door opens. “Jacob, media’s asking for you.”
Of course they are.
I drag a hand over my face and nod, grabbing my phone and slipping it into my pocket before heading to the press area. I squint into the bright lights of the cameras, and I adjust my ball cap, hoping it’ll shield me from some of the glare. I need sunglasses or a lobotomy. Preferably a lobotomy. The pills don’t work quickly enough, so I have to deal with this with the full brunt of the pain clawing at my mind.
The first few questions are easy: how did the team prepare for this game, what adjustments did we make after the first period, and how did it feel to contribute to such a dominant win? I answer with practiced ease, keeping my tone upbeat but professional.
And then it happens.
“So, Jacob,” one of the reporters begins, her pen poised over her notepad, “there’s been a lot of buzz about your style of play lately. People say it’s reminiscent of your father’s... strong, aggressive, a natural leader on the ice. How does it feel to follow in Carl Drayton’s footsteps?”
The question slams into me like an unexpected check, and I blink at her for a moment, the wind knocked out of me. It’s worse than getting smashed into the boards. My mouth goes dry, and the pressure in my head swells.
“It’s—” I clear my throat, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral. “It’s always an honor to be compared to someone who was such a big part of the game. But I’m focused on being my own player.”
She doesn’t let up. “Do you ever feel pressure to live up to his legacy? To carry on the Drayton name in hockey?”
My jaw tightens. “I don’t think about it that way. My focus is on doing my best for this team and doing whatever it takes to win.”
It’s a polished answer, but it’s hollow. I hate the way people talk about my dad like he was some kind of saint on skates. They didn’t see the man who snarled at us over missed passes in the driveway, cared more about stats than smiles, and never said he was proud of us even when we played our hearts out. I could tell her that every practice, every game, all I can think about is beating his records so that I can finally get the ghost of him off my back and out of my head, but I won’t because it sounds pathetic, even in my head, and no one has the right to know our family’s secret shame.