26. Letter
Letter
Jackson,
The delivery landed. Brody launched himself at the box, but I managed to wrestle it away.
He saw your name on the return label and asked why a pro hockey player was mailing me cookies.
I told him that you were my Jackson. I think he went into shock; he even stopped eating a cookie, it was priceless!
I didn’t tell him that I listen to your game broadcasts on a small radio under a camo net while the desert wind rattles the tent.
I find myself wondering what it would feel like to actually stand in front of you. To see you smile in person.
I read what you said about that blogger and the trolls.
It makes my blood boil. People who call you “soft” or a “distraction” wouldn’t last a single minute in your world, let alone mine.
There is nothing soft about being exactly who you are in a place that tries to force you into a mold.
Those people don’t see the strength it takes to step out on that ice every night, knowing the cameras are looking for a reason to pick you apart.
You aren’t a distraction, Jackson; you’re the heart of that team.
Don’t let their hate make you smaller. The only people who think your sexuality matters more than your talent are the ones who are too afraid to live as honestly as you do.
I realize how hypocritical I am. I’m just tired of the mask today.
It’s different here. Everything is gray concrete, dust, and rules.
If you’re… different… You learn to hide it fast. You spend twenty-four hours a day pretending to be a version of yourself that everyone else expects.
It’s an exhausting kind of quiet. But reading your letters is the only time I get to take a breath.
I don’t know your voice, and I’ve never held your hand, but you have the most beautiful, gentle soul of anyone I’ve ever known.
Don’t let the cameras change that. You are the only good thing I have to look forward to over here.
Splash