Page 6 of Mind Pucked

I was finishing school at a private college, Biltmore, leagues away from him. I was trying to get my dual degree, a Bachelor of Science in childhood development and educational psychology. I managed to get the degree, but left before I got my educational certification for early education or did clinicals to get into the psychology field. I had either option ahead of me, but I rushed home to be there for my parents after the loss of Preston.

But it was almost like I mourned alone. I was sad, and I was angry. And I was looking for answers that my parents thought were better left alone. In fact, six months in, they had Preston declared dead. There was no sign of him, and everyone said that the accident was too bad, and there was too much blood, for him to have actually survived. Even though he made it out of the crash, he would’ve passed out and died somewhere else. Maybein the woods outside of town, hell if I know. It never made sense to me.

In fact, for the past two years, little has made sense to me.

So, I hightailed it to London to work for friends of the family. They were always flitting around the world with their kids due to their work. Originally from Paris, then moving here to the US, and then to London, they needed someone to go with them and care for their children. With my experience, they thought I would make a great au pair.

My parents had no problem sending me off, saying goodbye. They simply checked in every once in a while. And the isolation was good for me at first. It helped me grieve properly, away from all the rumors and whispers. It helped me really remember my brother the way he was meant to be remembered.

But I couldn’t handle it—the fact that a piece of paper said that Preston was dead.

So when I came back home only a month ago, I dove into the case. I remember seeing car accident photos in the beginning, trying to make sense of it all. The whole thing was a mess. The car caught fire way too easily. The brakes weren’t working. So many odd things that just pointed to foul play in my book.

I know I’m no investigator, no expert, but even as an outsider looking in, it’s still pretty damn obvious that there’s something fishy about this whole thing. And yet I’ve not heard a peep out of the police. Not a peep from my parents to say that they’re on the department’s case to get more information. It’s as if my brother never existed. Nobody seems to care.

So, I’ve taken a deep dive into his life. And my brother above all loves hockey. He always has, always will, even in the grave.

He was an enforcer for the Chicago Blue Jays. A star player. And he had a rival—a rival who he knew long before the Blue Jays. As far as I can tell, Jackson is still alive as a star player while his rival, Preston, is for all intents and purposes dead.

I remember the two of them from when I was younger. It was before I left for college, but I was so reserved I never tried to get to know Jackson at all, even though I thought he was the bee’s knees. He was great at hockey, he was funny, he was smart, and he was hot.

That’s kind of all it takes for a young and inexperienced girl.

I remember how the two of them would talk shit to each other and get in a lot of fights. They were in trouble at school all the time, even college, for fighting on the ice. Until then, I thought what they had was harmless. That they were only shit-talking each other because they were jocks.

After talking to others, and after seeing clips and interviews from games and when they got accepted to the team, I’m not so certain now.

Maybe it’s wrong to speculate, but I have a bad feeling that Jackson has everything to do with this. That it’s Jackson who wanted my brother gone.

The motive gets a little muddy. But you know when you get that feeling in your gut when something is the right answer, but you don’t know how to prove it? That’s what I have. It’s the same feeling I’ve had the entire two years, but I’ve only now started to give voice to it.

If I think real hard, I can come up with a few reasons that Jackson might have wanted Preston dead. Or maybe not even dead, just injured. If my brother couldn’t play hockey, then thatwould take the rival out of the game. Maybe Jackson would get a raise or more fame or even get on a more high-profile team.

The Chicago Blue Jays were doing great. They were at the top of their game. But that was the first time they became true Stanley Cup contenders. There are plenty of teams that have been multiple times—and even won multiple times—that would give him more of the attention he might have wanted.

But when I look him up, I find that Jackson is still very much a Blue Jay. I don’t know if he’s had other offers and turned them down, or if offers just never came.

There’s one other fact that plagues me. Preston was in the car with someone else—Jackson’s wife, Lyla.

Lyla also passed away that day, but she was found at the scene alive, though she was too injured to tell anyone anything.

Testosterone, I’ve learned since becoming an adult and getting out there, can make men do some weird things. Guys get it in their heads that they need to find any way possible to compete. And sometimes they use women to do that.

Maybe the rivalry went too far. Maybe my brother got caught up in it all, and he was having an affair with Jackson’s wife.

Affairs are the number one motivator for killing someone. You can watch it on all the true crime shows. If there’s cheating in a marriage, it’s pretty much guaranteed that’s the reason somebody ended up six feet under.

So, maybe Jackson knew. Maybe Jackson knew, and the rage was too much. He wanted to get rid of them both and make them pay.

But the fact is, no one has ever looked into this. No one even knows why Preston was in the car with Lyla. And the cops don’t seem interested in pursuing the matter.

Most people tell me to just forget it, to move on. But all of this just makes me even more suspicious.

It’s the pain and possibilities that keep me going. I can’t seem to move on. I’m looking for my brother in people’s faces everywhere I go, wondering if he’s still alive and has just forgotten who he is.

He may have been a shit-talker sometimes. A little hotheaded too. I remember when we were little, he would get so vindictive about things. I might accidentally knock over a toy of his or come into his room when he didn’t want me in there, and I would end up with something broken, stolen, or some horrible prank played on me. The kind a girl shouldn’t have to go through.

But as he grew up, the need for pranks wore off. He ended up becoming my biggest protector. I always felt safe with Preston around. Now, going through life without him is strange. It’s like being in a foreign country and not knowing the language.

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