3. Jackson
Jackson
“Fuck, I’m going to be late!”
The navigation display in my truck says I’ll be sitting in traffic for at least another twenty minutes. I quickly call my team captain. “Hey Donovan, I’m on my way, I promise you!”
He doesn’t sound annoyed at all, just knowing. “You left late, didn’t you? And let me guess—you thought that you would be able to drive here with no extra traffic!”
Fuck, how did he know me so well? Now he was just laughing at me.
“Firstly, fuck you,” I joke, “and secondly, yeah, of course you’re right. I’ll be there in twenty.” Just as I’m about to hang up on him, I hear him chuckling. Fucker.
Cole Donovan has been the Tidal Teals captain for his sixth season, and he is my idol in every way.
He’s the first on the ice and the last to leave, but his leadership goes far beyond stats.
He’s the steadying force in the locker room, the kind of captain who doesn’t need to shout to command respect.
If I need a check on my game, he’s the one who strips away the shit, telling me exactly what I’m doing right and exactly where I’m failing.
He manages to be both the guy pushing you to be perfect and the guy who’s got your back when you’re falling apart, and he does it with a grace that makes you want to work harder just so you don’t let him down.
I finally park my truck twenty-two minutes later.
Cap’s gonna fucking have my balls for this, I swear.
Walking up, I can see the rest of the team already lining up for pictures with fans.
God, I hate this part. Don’t get me wrong, I love our fans, it’s always the same shit, different day.
Jackson Hayes, the gay hockey player, women trying to be that one person that turns me straight, me, well, don’t get me started, I’ve been screwed over so many times.
They either just want the lifestyle I have or hockey tickets. I’m so tired of it.
“Look who finally decides to show up!” Logan, my fellow defenseman, shouts.
“I’m not that late!” I protest, checking my watch.
“Come on and get in this picture with me.” Logan drags me from photo to photo.
“Man, I hate these things,” I whisper to him as a very excited group of women runs up to us, fucking perfect!
“Just a few more and then you can go wander,” Logan replies, his look apologetic, he’s seen some of the disasters I’ve been with.
As I wander around the charity event, stopping for occasional fan photos with my hands tucked firmly into my pockets, something catches my eye.
A military stand. God, all my fantasies have come true, a man in uniform, fuck yes.
“Did you know that there is a large number of military personnel deployed who have no communication with their life back home, wherever that may be for them?” a soldier asks, but in a crowd full of people, he is looking directly at me.
I head his way. “What can I do?”
“If you’re serious, sign up to receive a letter from one of our deployed personnel. You will get a letter, and you can write back.”
I love the idea of talking to someone who doesn’t know who I am.
They won’t have any preconceived opinions of me, and I can just be me.
A deep, quiet hope ignited, a potential link to a connection built entirely on words, where I could finally be the person behind the jersey.
The anticipation of receiving that first letter, of having a direct line to a world so far removed from the loud, superficial chaos of my own, was overwhelming but sounded so fucking perfect right now.