Page 14

RILEY

The smell of pancakes lures me from the tangle of my blankets. Dad’s listening to his favorite radio station, singing along tunelessly as though no one in the house is trying to sleep. I sigh and roll until my face is pressed into the pillow, clutching my hands around my ears, but it’s pointless. I won’t be able to get back to sleep, so I might as well get up. I tug a hoodie over my tank top and head to the kitchen, rubbing sleep from my eyes as I follow Dad’s droning through the apartment.

His salt-and-pepper hair is pillow-matted at the back, his sleep shirt has a hole next to the collar, and his shorts are sagging. Holding the spatula like a machete, he cuts an unlikely figure, but his pancakes are second to none.

“Morning, kiddo,” he says without looking up, deftly flipping a fluffy pancake to cook its raw side.

“Morning.” I slide onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island, resting my chin in my hand. The events of last night replay in my mind like a highlight reel—Shawn’s kiss, the taste of regret when I told him about Hayes, the mess I’ve gotten myself into. “You’re up early.”

“I always get up early,” he says, smirking. “You’re the one who sleeps half the day away.”

I roll my eyes, grabbing a fork from the counter. “You know you can’t sing, right? There are dead people you drew from the grave stumbling around out there, confused.”

He chuckles, sliding a plate toward me. It’s stacked high with pancakes, dripping in syrup and butter. “Critique me all you want, but I’m still the pancake champion, and my plants are thriving.”

I grin, cutting into the stack. “Thanks, Dad.”

The music breaks for a news update, but I don’t pay attention. My thoughts are a jumbled mess, and last night’s tension still clings to me, heavier with a night of sleep weighing it down. I’ve made a mess of things, driven by my desire to piece together the past and present. Although I assumed all my memories and feelings about the Draytons were crystal clear, it hurt to find them so easily validated. I guess, in my heart of hearts, I hoped that I’d colored the past darker than it was.

When the DJ returns to playing eighties music, I lower my fork. “Dad,” I say hesitantly, “I’ve been talking with the Drayton brothers again.”

He glances up, his fork halfway to his mouth. “You have?”

“Yeah. You know they play for the Icebreakers.”

The surprise in his expression melts into something softer. “That’s good, Riley. Really good.”

“It is?”

“Of course. Those boys were practically family for a while. They were good kids. I used to love watching them play. Real raw talent and dedication you don’t find that often. Shame what happened to their family, and…” He points a chunk of pancake at me. “I regretted getting involved with their mom so soon after their dad passed. At the time, I thought it might help them to have a man around the house… support, I guess. But it wasn’t right, and when we left, I felt like I’d made a tough situation so much worse.” He shakes his head and chews his food, lost in memories.

“You went to their games?”

“Oh yeah. I loved watching them. Jacob was always so fast and intense, Hayes was so serious and precise, and Shawn...” He smirks. “Well, Shawn was Shawn. Smooth as butter, on and off the ice.”

I groan. “They haven’t changed.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press, and I’m grateful. Sensations flood me. Hayes’ dick pressing between my legs and Shawn’s lips on mine. The hurt at Hayes’ words and my confusion at Shawn refuting my assumptions. There’s so much to unpack.

“It’s good that you’re reconnecting,” Dad says thoughtfully. “Those boys went through a lot. Losing their dad, then dealing with their mom... Giselle wasn’t the easiest person.”

“She wasn’t.” I hesitate. “She’s remarried. They don’t speak to her.”

My statement clouds his eyes with concern, and he sets down his fork. “They deserved better from both their parents. Carl… he was a tough man to pin down. Very driven. He expected a lot from himself and a lot from his kids.”

There’s a beat of silence before Dad’s eyes brighten, and he points a syrup-sticky finger at me. “You know, there’s something I’ve been holding onto for them.”

I blink. “Holding onto?”

“Yeah.” He wipes his hands on his sleep shorts and stands, disappearing down the hallway toward the coat closet. A minute later, he returns, lugging a dusty cardboard box. He sets it down on the island with a grunt.

“What’s that?”

“After I moved in with Giselle, she went on a tear about getting rid of all Carl’s stuff. Said it was holding the family back, and it was time to move on.” He frowns. “I didn’t think it was right… erasing the man. She enjoyed the money he left behind enough. Figured one day, the boys might want to look at some of it.”

He opens the box, revealing a treasure trove of memories: pucks labeled with game dates, stacks of game tape, a few framed photos, jerseys with Drayton emblazoned across the back, and a small leather-bound journal.

I reach for the top disk, my fingers brushing dust off the label. It’s dated toward the end of their father’s career. “You kept all this?”

“I couldn’t watch it go into the trash. It’s history. Not only for the boys but for all hockey lovers.”

I hold up the journal, frowning. “Did you read this?”

“No. Figured his sons might want to, though. I didn’t want to intrude into the man’s private thoughts. Felt bad enough stepping into his shoes with that family so raw.”

We dig through the box, finding more treasures: ticket stubs, a cracked helmet, and a jersey still marked with blood from a fight on the ice. We finish breakfast, then set up the old DVD player in the living room to watch one of the games.

The dated footage flickers to life, and there he is: Carl Drayton, skating with effortless grace, commanding the ice.

“That man was unstoppable,” Dad murmurs. “Until he wasn’t.”

The game progresses, and it strikes me that Jacob plays a lot like his father; aggressive but with so much fluid ease that it polishes off his sharp edges.

“How old was I when he played this game?” I ask.

Dad rubs his chin and picks up the sleeve. “You were seven, honey.”

That would have made the boys ten.

I’m not prepared for the moment when everything changes: a brutal collision at center ice, Carl’s head rebounded from a defender’s knee onto the ice, his crumpled, unmoving body, the silence of the arena as his team panics around him and medics rush onto the ice.

I press a hand to my mouth. “Does he get up?”

“No,” Dad says grimly, pausing it. “They take him off on a stretcher.”

“Concussion?”

“Most definitely, although I always suspected the diagnosis was downplayed. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.”

“He played again, though, right?”

“Sure. He played again but lost his edge. There was just enough of a flicker of hesitation for the opposition to defend against him. He retired not long after this to spend more time with his family. I remember the press conference. He seemed miserable about the decision… Well, his words didn’t match his body language. I always wondered…”

“What?”

He sighs, leaning back. “If it was really about them—or if he just couldn’t face the ice anymore. Concussions can mess with your head. Your emotions, your personality... everything.”

I think of the Drayton triplets and how closed off they were when we lived together. The loss of their father had had a profound impact on them. They’re different now, with a certain swagger that I assume has come from their on-ice success. They’ve separated themselves from their roots and their past, so will they even want this stuff?

“They’ve lost their way,” I say. “Without a good role model. It’s a shame you didn’t get to be that for them.”

“It wouldn’t have worked,” Dad says. “And it was better for you this way. Their demands would have swamped you.”

“How?”

“Hockey came first,” he says. “Anything important to you would have always been secondary. I’m glad it was just us after that. I got to be your dad, and you got to blossom into the amazing woman you are today.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say softly. We don’t talk like this very often, but I guess our journey into the past has made him reflective.

“Shall I give them this stuff?” I ask.

“Are they ready?”

“I don’t know.” I rub the crease between my eyebrows, considering the Jacob, Shawn, and Hayes I’ve been exposed to now. They’re forward-facing, eyes on the future while they make the most of the present. Being forced to look back at the past, when it holds a lot of darkness, isn’t easy.

“I trust you to decide when they are.” He pats my knee, and I glance at the jersey spread over the top of the box, with Drayton in white.

My mind swirls with questions and uncertainty. This box isn’t just their father’s legacy—it’s a key to understanding the man who shaped them, for better or worse.

And somehow, it’s up to me to decide what to do with it.

***

“Come hang out with us,” Imani yells down the phone.

“Where are you?”

She sounds tipsy, and music plays in the background.

“Malik’s. I called Katerina, and she’s coming. And Vi and Freya.”

“I don’t know.” I look down at my stretched-out sweats and fluffy socks.

“Just throw on some jeans and come,” she pleads like she’s looking at me through the phone and knows my outfit concerns. “I don’t want to be alone with all these dudes. They keep talking about sports, and I’m DYING.” Her theatrical yawn is so loud I pull the phone from my ear.

“COME,” Malik yells in the background. “And bring snacks.”

“Yeah,” Imani says. “The snacks are disappearing like there are T-Rexes up in here.”

“I’m hung like a dinosaur,” a deep voice bellows in the background.

“Yeah, a Microraptor!” someone else yells.

“What the fuck is that?” Imani asks. “Actually, forget it. I get the micro reference. Riley, come and save me. These guys are obsessed with their dicks, and I can’t stand another conversation about which superhero is the baddest because NONE OF THEM ARE. THEY’RE FICTIONAL! AND ONLY GEEKS GIVE A SHIT!”

“Okay,” I laugh. “I’m coming. But only with sympathy.”

“I’ll take it,” she says. “Get your butt over here.”

I hang up the phone, still chuckling at the dude who knew what a Microraptor is. Like he tried to cuss out an arrogant jock by nerding so hard, no one knew what he was talking about. Men! Or should I say, boys!

I do what Imani suggested and throw on some baggy jeans and a cornflower blue sweater. I powder my face, stroke on some mascara and a little lip gloss, grab my phone, and I’m done.

Dad is reading on the sofa, and I stare at his lonely figure, wishing he’d find someone who could keep him company so leaving him alone would feel less shitty. “I’m going out,” I say. “Imani needs rescuing from bro-conversation.”

He lowers his glasses to peer at me. “You look nice. Someone special going to be there?”

“Probably not,” I say, although his question gets me wondering. Maybe I should have asked if the Draytons were there. I didn’t hear familiar voices, but that doesn’t mean they’re not lurking in the background. If I asked, I would have had to come up with an explanation for Imani, and I’m not in the mood to embarrass myself.

The drive to Malik’s only takes five minutes, and I arrive at the same time as Freya. She looks cute in a red knit dress and knee-high boots and clutches a bag of snacks she’s picked up on the way.

“How many snacks do they need?” I ask, scanning her haul. She has chips, dip, bars of chocolate, and bags of sweets, like me.

“I get the feeling there are a lot of people in there,” she says, staring up at the apartment, emitting louder music than I expected.

“Sounds like they’ve turned up the volume, too.”

“Mmmm.”

Freya’s not the party type. She’s bookish and crafty and spends most evenings reading wolf smut and sewing cute new outfits. I wonder how much Imani had to beg her to leave the comfort of her dorm.

“Let’s make a deal. If it’s too rowdy, we have a drink, eat some of this healthy food, and sneak out in an hour.”

She holds out her hand, grabs mine, and pumps it enthusiastically. “DEAL. DOUBLE DEAL. DOUBLE DEAL WITH A CHERRY ON TOP!”

“Alrighty then.” I laugh.

I’m the one to press the buzzer, and somehow, it’s heard from inside, and the lock releases.

We climb the stairs, finding the door to the apartment wide open. Malik shares with a couple of other hockey players, and before I’m three feet inside, I’m confronted by more. Imani appears from the lounge and pulls me and Freya into a single, grateful hug.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” She grabs the bags and whisks them into the kitchen in a whirlwind of curly hair and floaty satin top. I’m dressed to chill out rather than party, but whatever.

“Here.” She shoves a red plastic cup into my hand, and I bring it to my nose to identify what I’m drinking. It smells like some kind of fruit punch, but with something alcoholic lacing it.

I take a tentative sip and am pleased to discover it’s nice. “So, this is bigger and livelier than I was expecting,” I say.

“Yeah.” Freya glances around with fear-wide eyes. “The testosterone to estrogen ratio in this place is really off.”

“It’s a sausage fest,” Imani moans. “And all these guys are off limits.”

“Malik torturing you again?” I smile.

“Yep. I don’t know what a girl has to do to find some allowable cock, but it’s better now you guys are here.”

“Where are the others?”

“Katerina’s in one of the bedrooms playing some kind of retro computer game, and Vi’s in one of the other bedrooms having a row with Jeff.”

“Oh, shit,” Freya says. “I thought they fixed things.”

“They’re in a slump that I don’t think they’re getting out of.”

We all grimace because we’ve been predicting Vi would get sick of Jeff’s flirtations with other girls. He pretends he’s everyone’s bestie, but really, he’s a creep just waiting to have his name permanently engraved on the shitlist!

“Right, so where are we going to go?”

“Den.” Imani leads the way, weaving through groups of people gathered in the hallway. The apartment smells like beer, sweat, and something like burned tires, and I’m starting to wonder if our “one-hour plan” might be the best option after all.

Imani pushes open a door, revealing a dimly lit room with a giant sectional couch and a big-screen TV. The vibe is quieter and calmer—exactly what I need.

Before we settle in, Jeff storms past and slams the door on his way out. We exchange looks, and Freya screws up her face. “I’m going to go check on Vi. You know what she’s like when she’s pissed. Probably best we don’t all go.”

I’m grateful Freya wants to take on the task. When she’s wound up, Vi can be a landscape of sharp rocks and lava pools.

“Imani,” Malik yells as Freya heads towards the room she was directed to.

“What?”

“Mom’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you about Thanksgiving.”

Imani rolls her eyes but takes the outstretched phone and heads out of the apartment for some peace and quiet. I’m left in the doorway of the den, finding a few people watching sports highlights. And Jacob Drayton.

He’s slouched in the corner of the sectional with an empty space next to him, as though he’s so fearsome that nobody dared to get too close. His head is tipped back, eyes closed. Even with his face half hidden in the shadows, he looks like a fallen angel, perfect but corrupted. His blond hair is messy, his jawline sharp, and his presence fills the room, even when he’s trying his best to blend into his surroundings. I hesitate for a second, not recognizing anyone else, but then I think about the box that I rooted through today and how significant it could be to him, and I don’t want to miss an opportunity to tell him about it.

I cross in front of the TV and perch on the edge of the seat, keeping my eyes on Jacob. Is he sleeping? He opens his left eyelid just a crack and then drops it back.

“Riley Johnstone.” His voice is like gravel and velvet, low, rich, and raspy.

“Jacob Drayton.”

“I’m not in the mood for company.”

“And here was me thinking you were the life and soul of the party.”

He snorts, keeping his eyes closed.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, finding his face tense and a frown tugging at his mouth. He’s at a party, but he looks like he should be in bed.

“You okay?” I ask softly, surprising myself.

For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me. Then he shifts slightly. “Headache.”

“You should go home,” I suggest. “Rest in a dark room, maybe take something for it.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m not an old person, Riley.”

“It works for me.”

He scrunches his eyes as though my voice has added an extra layer of pain to his misery.

“I push through them. Or fuck through them. That’s what works.”

I flush at the harshness of his words. “Sounds painful.”

He shakes his head. “You have no idea.” There’s a weight to his confession, and I sip my drink, unsure how to respond.

“Riley.” His deep voice saying my name makes my stomach flip, and I blink at him, startled. Both eyes are open now, watching me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. “That night at the Red Devil—”

“—you really don’t need to.”

He smirks, revealing just a hint of his perfect smile. “Don’t need to what?”

“Apologize.”

His smirk grows wider. “How do you know that’s what I was going to do?”

I stare at the screen, at an impossible touchdown, as the others in the room erupt into a celebration. It’s not a live game, but it’s still friggin’ exciting. “Sorry for assuming you were trying to be a decent human being.”

“Maybe I was going to ask you if you changed your mind. You know orgasms can be nature’s headache remedy.”

Shocked, I swivel in the seat pressing my knee against his bulky jean-clad thigh. “Don’t fuck with me, Jacob.”

He shrugs. “Can’t fault a man for trying.”

“Guess it’s in the blood,” I mutter.

He stiffens, bringing his hand to his temple. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” If he has a headache now, he’d probably burst a blood vessel to find out what I’ve done with his brothers.

He rubs a hand over his face, his knuckles white. “I didn’t know who you were. If I’d known...”

“You would’ve what?” I challenge lightly, though there’s no heat behind it.

His mouth quirks in a half-smile. “I don’t know. Probably acted like less of a dick.”

“Probably.” I smile, too, trying to ease the tension. “It’s fine, Jacob. I get it. It was a weird situation for both of us.”

His gaze sharpens like he wants to say something else, but I fill the silence first.

“I watched one of your dad’s games today. With my dad.”

His body stiffens, and his eyes narrow slightly. “What?”

“My dad pulled out this box of stuff from when he was married to your mom. Apparently, he kept some of your dad’s things—game tape, a diary, a jersey—because he thought you might want them someday.”

Jacob sits up straighter, his posture rigid. “He kept them?”

“Yeah.” I nod, setting my drink on the floor. “Apparently, your mom wanted to toss everything. He said he didn’t think it was right to throw them away, so he held onto them. You can come get them anytime.”

For a moment, Jacob ponders, his jaw ticking and his big hands flexing into fists on his thighs. When he finally speaks, his voice is tight and low.

“I don’t want them.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” He stares at me, his eyes blazing. “Toss it. Burn it. I don’t care. I don’t want any of it.”

“Jacob—”

“I said I don’t want it!” His voice cracks through the room like a whip, startling me into silence and drawing the attention of the others around us. He stands abruptly, shoving his hand into the pocket of his hoodie and pulling out a set of keys. “Keep the box, throw it out, do whatever you want. Just don’t tell me about it again.”

Before I can respond, he’s already walking out of the room.

“Jacob—wait!”

But he’s gone, his long strides carrying him out of the apartment without a backward glance, leaving me stunned and unsure how to process what just happened. He doesn’t want his father’s memorabilia. Is it because he’s still grieving after all these years, and looking through the box would be too painful? Or something else.

Feeling like I’ve opened up a healed wound, I finish my drink in a long swig.

The Drayton brothers are the most confusing men I’ve ever met, and I’m not about to waste more of my energy trying to figure them out.