Page 33

HAYES

Riley’s message comes with an unexpected invitation that I don’t know how to respond to.

Riley: My dad’s out this evening. Do you want to come over and look in your dad’s box?

It’s the first time she’s mentioned the box since Jacob blew up about it, and I’m still not sure how I feel. Curious? Absolutely. Nervous? That, too. Carl Drayton wasn’t a great father but he was still our father. A weird guilt accompanies the idea of sifting through someone else’s curated memories of him. And more guilt for not telling my brothers about my intention. Shawn will want a look at the box at some point, but Jacob is so resistant that telling him what I’m doing is impossible.

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.

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.

“Thanks for... this,” I say, gesturing to the box.

“Of course,” she replies. “Thanks for the bribery.”

Her dad glances between us with a small, confused smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and deepening lines on his face. Riley has her mother’s lips but her father’s facial expressions. Funny the way that works.

My mind is spinning as I step outside into the cool night air. The journal’s heavy in my pocket, and I know I’ll spend hours reading it, trying to make sense of a man who was equal parts hero and villain in my life. A man me and my brothers will spend forever associated with.

And as I walk to my car, I can’t help but think about the difference between Carl and Riley’s dad. Where Carl was cold and distant, Riley’s dad was warm, welcoming, supportive. Maybe that’s why I feel drawn to her, because she’s a reminder of the kind of family I always wanted. The kind of man I want to be.

I climb into my car, the weight of the journal pressing against my thigh, and I drive home, knowing this is just the beginning of a whole lot of questions I’m not sure I want answers to, because even if I can face up to the truth and accept it, Jacob isn’t ready for any Carl Drayton stone to be lifted, let alone turned.