47. Jackson
Jackson
I stare down at the letter I’ve just read from Splash. Tears stream down my face for a friend I never got to meet, and for a man I truly care about. He didn’t explicitly name Brody in the note, but I knew exactly who he meant.
Fuck, what am I meant to say? I can barely keep my own feelings in check, let alone know what to write to bring a soldier comfort.
Just then, Logan bangs loudly on my truck window. I jump immediately, scrambling to wipe my eyes. Fuck, I don’t think I was fast enough. It’s so embarrassing to let him see me cry.
“Er, are you ok, Hayes?” he asks as he opens my driver’s side door.
I can’t speak. There is a massive, suffocating lump in my throat, and I can’t form a single word. Silently, I just pass him the letter as more tears roll down my face.
Logan reads it, his face falling. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Hayes. What can we do? We’re here for you, man, always.”
“They won’t let him go, will they? To the funeral, I mean,” I choke out.
“He still has months left of his deployment. Fuck!” I slam my head back into the headrest. I need to get out on the ice.
I desperately need that familiarity of my blades, the sound of them carving across the rink.
I grab my gear bag and climb out of the truck.
“Hey, we need to talk to Donovan,” Logan says, keeping pace with me as we head inside. “You know his brother is deployed. I bet he will know what happens next.”
I didn’t wait for Logan. I didn’t wait for anything.
I ripped open my gear bag, threw on my skates, and burst through the doors leading to the rink.
The air instantly hit me—cold, clean, and smelling of pure ice.
It was my sanctuary. I didn’t care that practice was over or that the lights were dimmed; I needed the familiar scrape of my blades against the surface to silence the screaming in my head.
I skated aimlessly, not practicing drills, just pushing off and gliding, carving wide, messy circles.
The motion was the only thing that felt real.
Every push was an attempt to outrun the image of Splash alone, grieving his best friend.
The ice was meant to be freedom, but tonight it was just an empty, cold space where I could finally feel the weight of his pain.
I leaned into a sharp turn, the spray of ice crystals scattering around me like shattered glass. I need to be there. I need to hold him.
A shadow appeared at the boards, silent and steady. I didn’t need to look up to know it was Donovan. He hopped onto the ice, not carrying a stick, just gliding easily toward me.
“Logan told me about the letter,” Donovan said, his voice low enough not to carry, but strong enough to cut through the quiet.
I stopped abruptly, shoulders slumped. “He’s all alone, Cap. They won’t even let him go to the funeral, will they?. He’s got a few months left.”
Donovan skated alongside me, matching my slow pace. “I know, Jackson. My brother, Nate, has seen things too. That kind of pain… It’s a silent killer.” He paused, his gaze steady and compassionate. “You can’t go over there, but you are his anchor. That’s a different kind of strength.”
He bumped my shoulder gently, the way a captain does to rally his team.
“Look at you. You came straight here. The ice is your safe place. And you found him through the letters, your safe place. You keep writing, Hayes. You keep sending him the cookies, the reminders of home. That’s the game plan now. ”
I nodded, feeling a small, essential piece of me click back into place. “Thanks, Cap.”
“Always here, Hayes,” Donovan replied, turning back toward the boards. “Now, get the hell off the ice before the Zamboni driver fines you. Go write a goddamn letter.”
I watched him go, the weight on my chest not gone, but manageable. The ice hadn’t fixed the pain, but Donovan had given me a focus. I had a game plan: keep being there for Splash. I turned and skated off the ice, heading for my locker and a fresh sheet of paper.