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)
The DVD player whirs to life, and for a moment, it’s like stepping back in time. There he is—Carl Drayton, in his prime. He’s fast, aggressive, and undeniably skilled. And it hits me how much we look like him. No wonder the press has started with their comparisons. Jacob withered in the face of the last press interview, when they mentioned his likeness to dad in appearance and style. He can’t even hear our father’s name without clamming up or lashing out.
Dad was wrong about Jacob. His strength is all external, and inside, he carries so much hurt in a tangle of scar tissue he can’t unravel.
Riley leans forward. “You really are chips off the old Carl Drayton block.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice quiet. “That’s him.”
We watch in silence as he glides across the ice, a commanding presence that’s impossible to ignore. The game is fast and furious, and Carl is in his prime, his play utterly relentless. It’s weird to watch him now we’re closer in age, like he’s become less of a legend and more human from our proximity. And then it happens—the hit. A defenseman barrels into him, shoulder first, and Carl goes down hard, his head snapping back against the ice. The game pauses as his team gathers around, and people rush out onto the ice. My stomach churns.
“Jesus,” Riley whispers. “It was brutal.”
I nod, gripping my knees. I’ve taken hits, hell, I’ve shrugged off hits. But nothing like that. Watching it happen to him—to Dad—makes my chest tighten.
“He told everyone it was nothing,” I say, my voice low. “He said he was fine; he was just shaken up. But... maybe he wasn’t fine.” I pick up the sleeve, looking for the date. Riley watches, nibbling the side of her nail like she’s worried she’s dredged up old pain. This was two years before he died. Six months before he stopped playing.
We were young, and it’s hard to remember before and after this event because the memories I have are muted and not in any coherent order. I never realized that this game could have been anything more significant than something he could make a full recovery from in a few days.
Riley looks at me, her expression soft. “I don’t know, Hayes. Maybe he’s written something in the journal.” Her attention drifts to my pocket, but I don’t retrieve it. I can’t read it in front of her. It’s too raw, and the contents are too unpredictable. I don’t mention anything else about it, and neither does she. The game ends eventually, and when she retrieves the disk, we pack everything back into the box.
After, I kiss her to fill the silence, needing her sweetness to settle into the cracks that have opened in my chest. She tastes of sugar and vanilla and melts into me like we were made to mold around each other’s broken places to become better… to become whole.
When a key sounds in the lock, Riley jumps back, startled.
“It’s Dad,” she hisses, wiping her mouth with her hand and adjusting her shirt.
“Riley?”
Her dad’s voice echoes through the house, and I ease back into the corner of the couch, putting a respectable distance between me and his daughter.
“In here, Dad!”
When he steps into the living room, Mr. Johnstone’s eyes land on me, and for a moment, I brace myself. I haven’t seen him in years—not since the messy end of his relationship with our mom.
The eight years show in the lines on his face and the gray spackle in his hair. But then he smiles, his face lighting up with genuine warmth, and I remember the kind man he was. “Hayes,” he says, stepping forward. I stand, and he pulls me into a warm, genuine hug. With a manly slap on my shoulder, he draws back and looks me over.
“It’s good to see you,” he says, his gaze traveling the length of me. “You’ve gotten taller.”
I huff a small laugh, scratching the back of my neck as I look down at him from a new, much higher perspective. “It’s been a while.”
“It has... and a few million high-protein meals as well, by the looks of it.”
Riley laughs, and I shake my head and smile. It’s unexpected, but his embrace and humor remind me of something I didn’t realize I missed.
He nods, glancing at the box on the coffee table. His smile fades slightly, but he doesn’t comment on what we’re doing, and that only makes me appreciate him more. Instead, he turns to Riley. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not,” she says quickly. “Hayes was leaving.”
I glance at her, and she gives me a small smile, one that says she knows I need time to process everything. After what we watched, I’m not really in the mood to exchange pleasantries, or worse, go over anything related to Carl Drayton.