Chapter 7 Jacks
Jacks
My couch had a Jacks-shaped indent in the left cushion. This was either a sign of excellent furniture or a sign that I spent way too much time in one spot.
Probably the second one.
But after a Friday night shift like tonight’s, though, I didn’t have the energy to care.
I was showered, changed into sweats that had seen better days, and horizontal with a bowl of sugary cereal balanced on my chest. The TV was on but muted, some late-night talk show host interviewing someone I didn’t recognize.
My phone sat on the coffee table, occasionally lighting up with messages from the Barbacks group chat that neither knew boundaries nor appropriate texting hours.
Finn was doing a postmortem on the Space Duke, as we’d dubbed him.
He’d even created AI images depicting a photorealistic version of George Jetson in royal regalia standing with one foot on the wing of an odd-looking spaceship.
AI had given him six fingers on one hand, which oddly, made the pic even more apropos.
Benji had cross-referenced the guy’s name from his signature on his credit card slip and somehow found the guy’s dating profile. I was reminded to hide all my passwords from the naughty little ninja.
Benji: He says he’s 6’2.
Benji: That man was 5’9” in lifts.
Benji: The lies began before they even met.
Finn: Go to sleep, Benji.
Benji: How can I sleep when there’s a hobbit-sized-space-creeper out there preying on the innocent gays of our city?
Mark: Please stop calling him that.
Benji: Space Duke Forever! All Hail!
I snorted and set the phone down.
Benji would go on like this for another hour at least. The man had the energy of someone who’d mainlined espresso directly into his bloodstream, even at midnight.
I crunched my cereal until there was nothing left but a little milk, set the bowl on the table, and considered my options.
I could go to bed like a responsible adult, watch whatever was happening on TV, or I could scroll through my phone until my eyes stopped working and sleep sucked me into its blessed embrace.
Option three won.
I snatched my phone and opened Instagram, flicking through one story after another.
Someone’s vacation photos.
An ad for meal kits.
Benji’s behind-the-scenes video of tonight’s shift, already posted, already racking up likes from our regulars.
A red notification bubble sat in the corner of the screen.
My DMs.
“More spam,” I grumbled aloud. I got those all the time, random accounts trying to sell me supplements or crypto or whatever scam was popular that week. I almost ignored it, but my thumb tapped anyway.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Hey
I sat up so fast the empty cereal bowl went flying, clattering off the coffee table and spinning onto the floor.
Skyler Shaw.
Skyler Shaw had messaged me.
No. Wait. Hold on. Back up.
I blinked at the screen, my brain doing that thing where it just . . . stopped . . . like a computer that’s been asked to run too many programs at once, and the little spinning wheel of death refused to stop spinning.
Except in that moment, the wheel was my entire capacity for rational thought.
PuckingSkylerShaw.
That couldn’t be real.
It had to be fake.
Some teenager hanging out in his grandma’s basement had created a parody account and was now DMing random people for kicks. That was the only logical explanation.
But also . . .
PuckingSkylerShaw was exactly the kind of dorky, dad-joke username an actual hockey player would think was hilarious.
“No fucking way,” I whispered, never wondering why I was whispering in my own den.
I clicked on the profile.
2.3 million followers.
Verified.
The little blue checkmark sat there, mocking my skepticism.
“Come on. Seriously?” I asked the screen. “Okay, fine. The little blue fucker is there, but verification can be faked, right?”
The screen didn’t answer back, but my spinning mind supplied a thousand replies.
People faked accounts all the time.
Photoshop existed.
Remember that documentary about catfishing, the one where a woman pretended to be a different woman for like three years?
Surely someone could fake a checkmark.
I scrolled through the account’s posts, through years of content.
There were training photos, game highlights, and charity events.
I zoomed in on a picture of what looked like Skyler’s parents at some award ceremony. They even looked like the guy—or he looked like them, however that worked.
Then there were behind-the-scenes shots with teammates I recognized from TV.
This was either the most elaborate catfish in internet history, or the Skyler Shaw had messaged me.
At midnight.
On a random Friday night.
I went back to the DM and read it again.
One word. Three letters. The absolute bare minimum of communication.
If this was a catfish, they weren’t even trying.
But if it was real . . .
“There’s no way,” I whispered again, thumb hovering over the screen, unsure whether to click or scroll.
Why would Skyler Shaw message me? This didn’t make sense.
We’d talked a few times at the bar, but I talked to a million guys at Barbacks. That didn’t make us friends.
It barely made us acquaintances who’d exchanged pleasantries over sliders.
Unless . . .
“No fucking way,” I shouted into the screen as realization dawned.
Benji was fucking with me.
That little glitter-covered goblin had access to my phone pretty much every day. He knew my Instagram password because I’d stupidly asked him to post something for me once. He had the technological capability and the chaotic evil energy to create a fake verified account to watch me lose my mind.
I flipped back to the group chat.
Me: Benji, I swear to God, if this is you.
Benji: If what is me?
Benji: I’m innocent of all crimes.
Benji: What am I being accused of?
Me: Did you make a fake Skyler Shaw account to DM me?
Benji: What?
Benji: No.
Benji: Why would I do that?
The dots danced, stopped, then somehow danced even faster. Clearly, Benji’s energy was infecting my cell phone.
Benji: Wait! Did someone named Skyler Shaw DM you?
Benji: Jacks?
Benji: ANSWER ME, JACKS! I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!
I muted the chat before Benji could spiral further.
Okay.
So this wasn’t Benji.
His shock seemed genuine, and also, Benji couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. If he’d orchestrated this, he would have cracked within thirty seconds.
Which left two options.
One: Some random internet stranger with too much time and an inexplicably well-crafted fake account had sent the DM.
Or.
Two: The actual NHL captain of our hometown team had sought out my Instagram, searched through hundreds of Jackson Armstrongs to find the right one, and decided to message me.
At midnight.
On a Friday night.
Option one made more sense.
Option two made my palms sweat.
I stared at the message for another thirty seconds, running through more scenarios, each one more manic and ridiculous than the last. Then my mind turned to next steps, what I should do with this DM regardless of the authenticity of its sender.
If I responded and it was fake, I’d feel like an idiot.
If I didn’t respond and it was real, I’d . . . also feel like an idiot.
And miss out on whatever the hell this was.
The cursor blinked in the reply field.
“Fuck it.”
jacks_mills_52: Okay, either this is really you or someone went through a LOT of effort to catfish a guy with 800 followers.
The reply came almost immediately.
My heart did something embarrassing. Well, it would’ve been embarrassing if anyone had been there to see it.
Still, I blushed. I don’t know why. I just did.
PuckingSkylerShaw: It’s me. Promise. I can prove it if you want.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Ask me something only I would know.
jacks_mills_52: That’s not how verification works. A catfish would make something up. Besides, I don’t know you well enough to know what you wouldn’t know. You know?
PuckingSkylerShaw: I’m not sure that made any sense, but I think you’re right. Confusing, but right.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Okay, what if I told you something embarrassing that I’d never admit publicly?
jacks_mills_52: I’m listening.
PuckingSkylerShaw: The first time I came to Barbacks I was so nervous I almost threw up in your parking lot.
I stared at the screen.
A catfish wouldn’t know that.
A catfish wouldn’t even think to make that up.
Who invents “I almost vomited from anxiety” as a cover story? I never even considered that Skyler would be anxious, not about visiting our little bar. He was a god, a Tampa staple, the captain of our freakin’ NHL franchise. Why would he be nervous walking into . . .
Oh.
A gay bar.
Right.
God, I was being paranoid. This was ridiculous. I was acting like receiving a DM was some kind of spy movie where everyone had secret identities and hidden agendas.
jacks_mills_52: Why were you nervous?
PuckingSkylerShaw: I wasn’t nervous walking in.
That was an exaggeration. But when I saw you, that’s when I wanted to throw up.
Shit. Not like that. Seeing you didn’t make me sick.
Fuck me. I got woozy because I was about to meet my favorite college football player and I didn’t want to seem like a weirdo or a fanboy or one of the puck bunnies who throw themselves at us in every town we visit.
Okay. That tracked with everything I knew about Skyler. The gay bar thing wasn’t a consideration, but fanning out over a childhood hero was. That made sense, even if I thought it was a bit ironic, him being Skyler Shaw and all.
Either this was real, or my catfish had done impressive research involving pinhole cameras, microphones, and illegal surveillance.
That seemed unlikely.
jacks_mills_52: Hate to break it to you, but you seemed like a weirdo stalker serial killer.
jacks_mills_52: The jersey thing? Framed on your wall? That’s serial killer behavior, dude. Certified How to Kill Your Husband TV show shit right there.
PuckingSkylerShaw: I didn’t frame your jersey.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Erik exaggerated.