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)
Riley blinks, and her eyes grow glassy like she might cry, then she eases away from me. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says.
I don’t want her to leave the cozy contentment of my bed, but we have things to do. The urge to join her for some wet and soapy fun is strong, but my dick is taking a well-deserved rest for now.
“Okay. Enjoy.”
She disappears with a towel in hand, and I straighten out the sheets and comforter, pull on some boxers, and slump onto the bed. It’s unusual for us to have time alone. Shawn has an overdue assignment, so he has disappeared to the library to tear his hair out in isolation, and Jacob is taking his turn at a fundraiser; one of the many Coach bullies the team to attend.
I stare at the wall and adjust my dick. The memories of Riley, naked, slick, panting, coming, harden it into a semi.
Jesus. I didn’t think lust this powerful was a thing I’d ever experience.
She’s like crack, or meth, or some other highly addictive substance that it’s impossible to get out of your head. The opposite of kryptonite.
I’m already imagining how I’m going to make her filthy the moment she leaves the shower when my phone buzzes. It’s on my nightstand, so I grab it and study the message. Collins is having a party to celebrate his birthday. It’ll be another drunken sex-fest, but it doesn’t bother me so much now that Riley’s in my bed, and the pressure to be like all the other hockey bros has dropped away. I rest my phone back on the nightstand, noticing the brown leather of my dad’s journal through the crack in the partially opened drawer.
I haven’t read it yet. Its presence has lingered in the back of my mind, like a terrible secret that could come out at any time. I grab it and flick it open, hoping that, if I read a few pages, I’ll find it filled with unimportant details, and I can give it back to Riley to place back in the box.
It feels heavier somehow than the last time I held it, like it’s grown even weightier with confessions my father was too proud to share. The leather cover is rough against my fingers, the pages dull and yellow with age, and I flick through page after page of scrawled handwriting. Dad was a skilled hockey player with style and grace on the ice, but his penmanship was a mess of jagged scrawl that is hard to figure out.
Another game. Another hit. They keep telling me to take it easy, but what the hell does that even mean? This is my job. My life. My identity. It isn’t possible to play hockey without hits. But the headaches are worse. Sometimes, it’s like my head is caving in, the edges of my vision blurring. The other day, I nearly blacked out in the middle of a rush. Can’t let them see that. Can’t let them think I’m weak.
The back of my throat tightens. I can see him, clear as day, gritting his teeth and frowning. Was he pretending he was invincible? Was he battling past the pain? As a kid, I guess I never thought about what he might have been going through. Children expect their parents to have everything under control. They need them to be stable and reliable, not prone to angry outbursts and violence. Back then, I wouldn’t have known what I was looking at.
But now? Now, I see the cracks.
The anger is harder to control, and I hate myself for it. One minute, I’m fine; the next, I’m yelling at the boys because they left their bags in the middle of the hallway. They look at me with these wide eyes, hugging the walls like they want to escape through them. Like I’m a monster, and maybe I am. All I’ve ever been good at is hockey. People aren’t easy. You can’t expect them to slide like a puck into the net. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror anymore because I don’t recognize the person looking back. The next hit might end more than my career, but if I take a break, if I stop, there’s nothing left.
His words hit me like a body check, driving the air from my lungs. He put us through so much. Jacob went through the worst. Having sympathy for someone who loomed over you, who hurt you, is impossible, but reading about his guilt and regret and hearing how much he was spiraling brings a new perspective to my feelings about him. Hockey was too central to his life and understanding how little he valued everything else cuts deeper than it should after all these years. He risked everything for hockey, even us.