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 had another fit today. They’re getting worse. The blackouts, the shaking—I can’t tell anyone. Not the team, not my family. If the boys found out... they’d look at me like I’m broken. Like I’m not the man they’re supposed to look up to. I can’t do that to them. I won’t.
He was having fits?
I clench the journal tightly, the soft edges curling under the pressure of my palms. All those times he snapped at us, lashed out, retreated into himself, was this why? Because he was hiding something he couldn’t face? Something he couldn’t control? And believing we’d think any less of him because of it. Jesus. If he’d just got some help, maybe he’d still be here. Maybe he could have seen how much he had, even without the game.
“Hayes?” Riley’s voice pulls me back to the present. She’s standing in the doorway, wrapped in a blue striped towel, her hair wet and her head tilted slightly as she studies me. “You okay?”
I nod, even though it’s a lie. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”
She steps inside, and her gaze flicks to the journal in my hands. “You’ve been reading it.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher and more affected than I intended. “It’s... hard reading.”
She sinks onto the edge of the bed beside me, her hand resting lightly on my arm. “I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
I hesitate, staring at the journal that I’ve now closed. Part of me wants to burn it, to bury everything inside it so we don’t have to return to the time that was so hard for us to handle. But another part of me, one that recognizes that the status quo isn’t exactly healthy, wants to show it to my brothers and make them see the man behind the memories we’ve created.
“I didn’t know,” I say, finding it hard to look at her as I speak. “He was suffering, and I didn’t know.”
“You were a kid,” Riley says gently. “Even if you did, it wasn’t your job to do anything to help him. He had adults around him who could and would have stepped in.”
“He was having... episodes… after that hit. Fits. Blackouts. He wrote about how he couldn’t stop himself from getting angry.”
Riley’s brow furrows, her fingers tightening on my arm. “That hit he took was brutal.”
“And he just kept playing.”
“Until he stopped.” That’s a part of the story that’s clearer now. I never understood his claim that he quit playing to spend more time with his family. The reality was, he spent more time asleep in a dark room, more time yelling at us, and treating our mom like shit. I used to feel so guilty for wishing he’d just go and play hockey again and leave us at peace. And that just overlaid the guilt I felt when he died.
“Jacob blames himself for the way Dad died. He was sick at practice, and Coach called Dad to pick him up early. The accident happened on the way.”
“Do you think he had a fit while he was driving?”
“It’s possible. I don’t know. I never saw his death certificate. All we knew was he died in a car accident on the way to the rink.”
“Shit.” She closes her eyes like the cold light of truth is too hard to face. All these years Jacob has been bearing the weight of guilt that wasn’t his… should never have been his. She’s quiet for a moment longer, her gaze growing thoughtful. “Do you think Jacob could be dealing with something similar?”
The question lands hard, taking me by surprise. “What?”
“Haven’t you noticed?” She plays with the fabric of the comforter. “He gets so many headaches.”
“Does he?” My first instinct is to dismiss it, but as her words sink in, I start piecing things together. The way he rubs his temples during practice. The number of times I’ve caught him sitting on the sofa with his eyes closed. The times he’s skipped out on post-game celebrations, claiming he’s tired. The way he snapped at me during drills last week when his voice was sharper than usual. And then there’s the fight. We’ve had arguments before as brothers do, but the way Jacob came at me, his fists flying like he was barely holding himself together... that wasn’t like him. Jacob’s always been intense, always carried more weight than the rest of us, which put him on edge. I thought it was that, but combined with the headaches—
It makes sense.
“Shit,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my face. “He took a hit last season. I thought it was bad, but he brushed it off. Doc signed him off to play because he claimed he had no symptoms.”
“You think I’m right?” Riley asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Wouldn’t he talk to us, Shawn and me, at least if he had something like this going on?”