Chapter 2
Skyler
Istill wasn’t used to the private jet thing.
Every time I walked up those steps and ducked through that door, some part of my brain short-circuited.
But this was my life now. Sure, I’d been in the league for a few years, and I should’ve been numb to the glitzy side of turning pro, but I couldn’t help myself.
This was how we got to games—in a whole-ass private plane with leather seats and actual legroom and a flight attendant who knew my name and how I liked my coffee.
The first time I’d stepped onto the team plane, fresh off my entry-level contract, I’d stopped in the doorway and gawked like a kid on his first visit to Disney. Murph had shoved me from behind and told me to “move my ass before he moved it for me,” which—okay, fair.
But still. A private jet. For hockey. For me.
Sometimes I had to remind myself that this was real life and not some fever dream I’d wake up from back in Tallahassee, where I would still be working in my uncle’s bait shop while dreaming of the wider world.
“Shaw. Yo. Earth to Shaw.”
I blinked.
Murph was waving a hand in front of my face, grinning like the unhinged gremlin he was.
“You’re doing the thing again,” he said. “The ‘I can’t believe this is my life’ thing. It’s embarrassing.”
“Shut up.”
“Seriously, bro, you look like a golden retriever seeing snow for the first time. Every. Single. Flight.”
“I said shut up.”
Kevin Murphy, Murph to everyone who’d known him longer than five minutes, was the Lightning’s starting left winger, the team’s unofficial chaos agent, and somehow, inexplicably, one of my best friends.
He was five-foot-ten, built like a fire hydrant, and had the energy of a caffeinated squirrel with impulse control issues.
He was also a menace.
An absolute, unrepentant, prank-pulling, shenanigan-loving master of mayhem.
On our last road trip, he replaced all of my underwear with thongs—and not just any thongs, bedazzled thongs.
I still don’t know where he found them or when he made the switch, but I had to play a full game in what amounted to a glittery dental floss nightmare because it was either that or go commando—and cups were far less forgiving than sequins.
The trip before that, he somehow convinced the hotel staff that I was deathly allergic to the color blue. I spent three days in a room where every blue item had been replaced with beige alternatives, including the toilet seat.
The man was a lunatic, and for some inexplicable reason, I loved him like a brother.
“Window or aisle?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Window. Always window.”
“Cool, I’ll take aisle so I can trip people as they walk by.”
“Please don’t.”
“No promises.”
We settled into our usual seats near the back of the plane, far enough from the coaches to talk shit, while close enough to the snack station to make regular raids.
The rest of the team filtered in, clumps of twos and threes.
Sounds I’d learned to love bounded off the metal tube’s interior: good-natured chirps, laughter, and someone’s terrible taste in music that bled from headphones that were cranked up way too loud.
Thankfully, the flight to Columbus was smooth. Murph slept most of the way.
Our hotel was decent, and practice the next morning was exactly what I needed—hard skating, crisp passes, and the kind of focused work that cleared my head and reminded me why I loved this sport.
Murph, naturally, spent the entire practice trying to pants Erik during drills.
He succeeded twice.
Coach made him do bag skates while the rest of us tried not to laugh.
“That was so worth it,” Murph wheezed afterward, bent over and dripping sweat. “Did you see his face?”
“You’re going to die young,” Erik told him flatly, his accent making even those words droll. “And I am going to be the one who kills you.”
“You know I love it when you talk dirty to me, Daddy.” Murph blew him a winded kiss.
After practice, I hit the hotel gym while Murph “recovered” in our room, which meant he was setting up some elaborate trap to surprise me on my return.
I’d learned to check every surface, every drawer, every inch of any space we shared.
The man had once rigged a confetti cannon to my suitcase.
I had to pick tiny bits of paper out of my equipment bag for weeks.
By the time I got back to the room, exhausted from a serious leg day routine, I was ready to collapse. I pushed through the door and scanned for tripwires or suspicious objects.
“Relax, dude,” Murph called from his bed. He lay sprawled like an overly muscled starfish watching something on his phone. “I’m too tired for shenanigans tonight.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said, continuing my scan before stepping through the doorway.
“Smart, but it’s true. I’m saving my energy for tomorrow.” His round, boyish face might’ve been his greatest weapon. How could anyone not trust that face? And yet, no one ever should. We’d all learned that the hard way.
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
I grabbed the remote and collapsed onto my bed, flipping through channels while the last of the adrenaline from my workout faded.
ESPN, ESPN2, some cooking competition where they made edible shit out of dirt or some other nonsense, then a documentary about sharks that looked cool but also way too intense for my current energy level.
Frustrated by the lack of options when there were too many choices, I returned to Old Faithful, ESPN.
SportsCenter played as background noise while I pulled out my phone and began my usual death scroll—Instagram highlights, a few texts from my mom asking if I was eating enough vegetables (no, Mom, I’m a grown adult), and a group chat that had devolved into an argument about whether a hot dog was a sandwich (it wasn’t, and I would die on that hill).
On the TV, SportsCenter transitioned into one of their special segments, the homemade stuff they played when there was nothing competitive to air but they still needed to fill the time slot.
Dramatic music swelled.
“—the hidden cost of college athletics. Tonight, we examine career-ending injuries and the players left behind when the spotlight moves on.”
I glanced up.
It was standard ESPN stuff. They loved these segments—slow motion footage, sad music that reminded me of fundraising drives for starving puppies, and a serious narrator voice that made James Earl Jones sound like Big Bird had sucked on a helium balloon.
These shows were usually about football because the sport was basically a human demolition derby with occasional touchdowns and tales of gruesome injuries were easily found.
Only mildly interested, my thumb kept scrolling through images on my phone.
Tyler had posted a photo of his dog wearing sunglasses. I double-tapped and moved on.
“—Florida State linebacker Jackson Armstrong was projected to be a first-round draft pick in 2023. Scouts called him ‘a once-in-a-generation talent’ with ‘NFL-ready instincts.’ Then, in a routine practice three weeks before the draft, everything changed.”
My scrolling slowed.
Jackson Armstrong.
The Jackson Armstrong?
I looked up at the TV.
They were showing college footage now. A guy in a garnet-and-gold jersey was destroying offensive linemen. He wore number 52.
“Damn, that guy had quick feet,” I muttered to myself.
Armstrong made everyone around him look like they were moving through syrup.
“. . . recorded 127 tackles in his senior season,” the narrator continued, “including fourteen tackles for loss and six sacks. He was a team captain, a fan favorite, and by all accounts, destined for professional greatness.”
The footage shifted to show the same player, same jersey, but now he was down. Trainers sprinted onto the field. The screen shifted to a slow-motion replay of his knee buckling in a way that made my own joints hurt.
I sat up straighter, tossing my phone aside.
“The injury—a complete tear of the ACL combined with significant meniscus damage—required immediate surgery. Complications during recovery led to additional procedures. By the time Armstrong was cleared to play again, the NFL had moved on.”
Again, the scene shifted.
It was the same guy, but different. He looked thinner, tired, and now wore street clothes instead of a uniform. He looked like someone who’d had the rug pulled out from under him and was still trying to figure out how to stand.
“I always knew football could end at any time,” Armstrong said on screen. “I didn’t think it would end like this, especially not in practice three weeks before my whole life was supposed to start.”
My professional athlete heart ached for the guy.
I knew this story.
But I didn’t just know of it; I knew it.
I’d followed Jackson Armstrong’s career since high school. I’d watched his highlights religiously. I’d—
The footage cut to B-roll.
It showed a sports bar with brick walls, TVs everywhere, and rainbow flags hanging from the ceiling. Behind the bar, carrying a bucket of ice, laughing at something off-camera—
Messy brown hair that curled at the ends.
A beefy frame.
That same easy smile.
“Holy shit,” I breathed.
I was on my feet before I realized I’d moved, pointing at the TV like a crazy person.
“Murph. Murph!”
“What? Bro, what’s happening? Are you having a stroke?”
“That’s Jacks!” I jabbed my finger at the screen. “The guy from Barbacks, the barback—his name is Jacks—Jackson—that’s Jackson Armstrong!”
Murph sat up, squinting at the TV. “The gay bar? The place with the sick sliders?”
“Yes! Look—that’s him—that’s the guy—”
But the segment was already transitioning, the narrator saying something about resilience and second chances as Jacks’s face disappeared and a commercial for truck insurance took over.
“Bro.” Murph was looking at me with a mix of confusion and amusement. “You good? You’re kinda freaking out here.”
“I’m not freaking out. I’m—” I ran a hand through my hair, pacing the small space between our beds.
“Okay, I’m a little freaking out, but dude, that guy—Jackson Armstrong—he was my favorite player growing up.
He played linebacker for FSU and was supposed to go pro.
Everyone said he was a lock for the draft, and then he blew out his knee and disappeared. ”
“And now he works at a gay bar in Tampa.”
“Yeah, at the bar Erik, Tyler, and I went to after they blew up on the local news. He’s the barback, the one who—” I stopped, trying to organize my thoughts. “It was so cool seeing him in person, shaking his hand, ya know? And now—”
“You’re having another fanboy moment, aren’t you?” Murph observed. “That’s what’s happening. You’re full-on fanboying right now, right here in our hotel room. Please, for the love of God, don’t make a mess. I’m not cleaning up your splooge.”
“Murph! I’m not—” I caught his grin and sighed.
“Okay, maybe a little, but bro, you don’t understand.
This guy was incredible. The way he read plays, the way he moved—I used to watch his game films for fun.
It’s weird how football vision and hockey vision are the same.
I learned a lot by watching his eyes during plays. I even had his jersey.”
“You had his jersey? Seriously?”
“Yep. Number 52. I might still have it somewhere at my parents’ place.” I stopped pacing and sat back down on my bed, staring at the TV like Jacks might reappear if I wished hard enough. “And he’s working at a bar now, serving drinks, after everything he was supposed to be.”
Murph was quiet for a moment, which was alarming.
“That’s rough,” he said. Career-ending accidents were at the top of every pro athlete’s terror list. “Injuries are a bitch. One bad hit, one wrong plant, and it’s all over.” He shrugged. “We both know guys it’s happened to.”
And we did. Too many. Pro sports weren’t designed to extend life or health.
In fact, most of them sucked the years from a body the way a leech drank blood.
We all knew it when we stepped onto the ice or field or whatever we played on; but money and fame and love of the damn game were too strong to keep us away.
It was a gravitational pull greater than any risk of life-altering injury.
Jacks proved that.
And he’d paid the price without ever enjoying the payoff.
Not even for a day.
“We should go back,” I said.
Murph raised an eyebrow. “To the bar?”
“Yeah. When we’re back in Tampa.” I was already pulling out my phone, like I could make it happen faster through sheer force of will. “I want to talk to him for real this time, ask him about FSU, about what happened, about—I don’t know, just talk to the guy.”
Murph’s whole head cocked. “Hang on. Let me get this straight. You want to go back to the gay bar in Ybor to fanboy over the barback’s college football career?”
“It’s not fanboying; it’s—” I heard myself and stopped. “Okay, fine, but the bar’s cool, the sliders are fire, and Jacks seems like a good dude. What’s the harm?”
Murph studied me for a second, something flickering in his expression that I couldn’t quite read.
“Sure, Cap,” he said. “Whatever you say. I’m always down for good sliders and supporting the locals, especially if they’re all about backing the team.”
“Sick. I’ll let Tyler and Erik know. We can make it a whole thing.”
“A whole thing,” Murph repeated. “At the gay bar . . . to meet the barback.”
“To meet my favorite college football player who happens to be a barback. Context matters, asshole. The local news might even want to cover this, show us doing our do-gooding, support the community, diversity-loving-team thing, ya know?”
“Uh-huh.” Murph was grinning now, that specific grin that preceded chaos. “Sure, dude. Context. Do-gooding. Sounds great.”
I ignored the suddenly weird vibe in our hotel room and grabbed the remote to flip channels, but my brain was already somewhere else. It was thinking about FSU football and career-ending injuries.
I wanted to know more.
I wanted to know him.
But this was fan stuff.
Totally normal bro things.
Just one dude liking what another dude did . . . or does . . . or didn’t do. Shit. Whatever.
I fell asleep that night thinking about what I’d say when I got the chance to talk to my football icon.
There was nothing weird about that.
Nothing weird at all.