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)
Still, I find myself standing on Riley’s doorstep an hour later, clutching a bag of donuts because it felt wrong to come empty-handed.
When she opens the door, her warm smile hits me like a shot of adrenaline. She’s in yellow leggings and a cream sweatshirt, her hair tied up in a messy bun, and she’s so effortlessly herself it makes my chest ache a little.
“Hey,” she says, stepping aside to let me in.
“Hey,” I reply, handing her the bag.
She peers inside. “Donut bribery?”
“Absolutely.”
She laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and in that moment, I know coming here was the right choice. The thought solidifies as she tugs me inside, her lips finding mine in a kiss that’s equal parts sweet and electric. When she pulls back, her head rests against my chest, and her arms wrap around me in a warm, grounding embrace. It feels like every tense edge in me softens, her presence washing over me like a balm I didn’t realize I needed.
The box is sitting on the coffee table in a simple cozy living room that’s homely and welcoming. I glance around, absorbing photos of Riley and her dad at different life stages and some with Riley’s mom, too. There’s even a picture of me and my brothers at thirteen dressed in our hockey gear that unsettles me. Until I bumped into Riley again and realized who she was, I’d let the memory of her and her dad lapse. They were part of a past that my brothers and I tried to forget, and all the while, they’ve kept the memory of us alive. Another layer of guilt is added, but I tear my eyes away before Riley notices and comments. What would I say? It’s sweet that you guys remembered us when we did our utmost, never to mention you existed.
I turn back to the box, seeking a distraction. It’s nothing fancy—just a plain cardboard box—but the weight of what’s inside curls my shoulders with grim anticipation. Riley sits cross-legged on the floor, gesturing for me to join her.
“I didn’t peek too much,” she says as she lifts the lid. “I thought you guys should have the first proper look. At the journal, especially.”
Journal? I had no idea my dad wrote down his inner thoughts. He never seemed like an introspective person. He was brash and out there, confident in a way that took the shine off his teammates’ skilled performances. I nod, leaning forward as she starts to pull things out. There are photos of Carl in his NHL days, sweaty and grinning on the ice. A puck scrawled with the date of his first hat trick, shirts, and other memorabilia. And then, at the bottom, a leather-bound notebook that makes my throat tighten.
Riley picks it up, running her fingers over the worn cover. “This is the journal, I think.”
She hands it to me, and I just stare at it for a moment. Carl was an expert at yelling and critiquing, but writing down his feelings?
Maybe it’s just a record of his game performance, or maybe ours. He wanted us to succeed, even though he constantly put us down, so maybe he was keeping track of our successes and failures. I open it to a random page, and my heart pounds as I scan the slanted handwriting. The first thing I notice is how messy it is, like he wrote quickly, without much thought to neatness.
Another bad game. I can’t keep up anymore, and the headaches are worse. Can’t let the team see it. They’re already looking for younger legs.
I pause, my stomach twisting. Headaches? He never talked about headaches. He never talked about much, really. I flip through a few more pages, finding notes about games, his frustrations with the team, and... something about us.
The boys are getting bigger. Jacob has so much strength—he’ll look out for his brothers. I see it in the way he protects them, even from me.
My breath catches, and I slam the book shut. I don’t know what I was expecting, but reading his words is like opening an old wound I didn’t even realize was still there, festering and vulnerable.
“You okay?” Riley asks, her hand brushing my arm.
“Yeah,” I lie, slipping the journal into my pocket, astonished that it exists at all and dreading what I’ll find out if I can face reading it. “I’ll, uh, read more later.”
She doesn’t push, which I’m grateful for. Instead, she pulls out a DVD, holding it up. “Want to watch a game?”
“Sure,” I say, because what else can I do? I’m here to see what’s in the box, and I don’t want to disappoint Riley by responding negatively. She seemed excited to share it with us, but from what I remember, she has a very different relationship with her dad than we did with ours.