30. Jackson
Jackson
The memories of the vile comments online still stung, a sharp contrast to the peaceful gold of the Pacific.
I thought about the sports bloggers and the faceless trolls who called me soft, who said I didn’t belong on the ice because of who I loved.
For a moment, the weight of their hate felt like it might pull me under, but then I felt the familiar weight of the letter in my pocket.
I can’t and won’t let them win. Their ignorance is loud, but my feelings for Splash are stronger.
Every goal I score, every shift I take, is a silent middle finger to bigotry.
I will focus on the man who sees the real Jackson, not the distraction the media wants me to be.
To overcome the hate, I only need to remember the quiet pond we’re building together—one shift at a time.
I sat on the deck, the wood warm beneath my palms, staring out at the stretch of sand that led down to the ocean.
The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, turning the Pacific into a sheet of muted gold.
I closed my eyes, letting the steady, relentless sound of the waves take over.
It was a constant, low roar, a reminder of the quiet I was searching for.
Waves crashing around you? Splash had written that in one of his first letters.
It felt like a lifetime ago. I opened my eyes, scanning the empty beach, wishing I could look up and see him here, standing on the edge of my world.
I wanted to hear his voice, to see the man who drew ducks and loved triple chocolate cookies, without the distraction of a noisy bar or the confines of a hotel room.
Did he want that too? Did he imagine us sitting here, side by side, watching the tide go out?
I’ve never felt so strongly towards a person, even a person that I haven’t met; it feels like we’ve written countless letters talking about everything, from deep to mundane things.
Fuck, I think I love him, yeah, I just said, and yeah, I’m crazy because I haven’t even met him, but the connection to the person in these letters is so strong!
I leaned back, letting myself fall into the fantasy.
In my mind, Splash wasn’t the soldier fighting in the desert anymore; he was home.
He was sitting right next to me, maybe tracing the patterns of the waves with his finger, his body relaxed, the tension finally gone from his shoulders.
Maybe he would be drinking that corrosive coffee he complained about, or maybe he’d be teasing me about my messy kitchen.
I imagined a life where the biggest concern was whether he wanted to go to the game tonight, or if he wanted to stay in and finally try to make that complicated espresso machine work.
A quiet life, away from the noise, anchored by the man who made me feel entirely seen, and fuck did I want that life with him.