57. Jackson
Jackson
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the pregame rush.
As I skated out in that camouflage jersey, the usual roar of the arena felt muted, replaced by a cold, heavy weight in my gut.
I hadn’t received a letter from Splash in weeks.
Every time the silence stretched, the worry gnawed at me.
Was he hurting? Was he even still there?
I felt like I was holding my breath, waiting for a signal that wouldn’t come.
But then I looked up and saw Anna and Cory in my seats, and a small, bright anchor of hope caught in my chest. Seeing them safe and smiling had to mean the world was still turning, and I had to believe that meant Splash was ok, too.
Tonight wasn’t just a game; it was a vigil. I was determined to make it count.
The game itself was a brutal, relentless grind.
Every hit felt personal, every shift a battle for a man I’d never met.
We were tied deep into the third, the tension in the rink thick enough to choke on.
I poured every ounce of my frustration and my hope into the ice, and when the final buzzer sounded on our hard-fought win, I felt a wave of relief so sharp it made my head spin.
I was steered immediately toward the media zone, the cameras and microphones blinding under the harsh lights.
“Jackson, incredible win on Military Appreciation Night,” a reporter pressed.
“What did this mean to you?” I wiped the sweat from my eyes and looked straight into the lens, thinking of the man behind the ducks.
“Tonight was everything,” I said, my voice thick.
“It’s about letting people know they’re seen and valued.
Even if they are miles away. Every shift tonight was for them. ”
I took a breath, ignoring the flashes, locking my eyes on the lens because I wasn’t talking to the press anymore.
I was talking to the desert. “People see the uniform, and they see the heroes, but they don’t see the cost. They don’t see the weight of the silence that these guys carry when they’re off-duty, or the war that doesn’t stop just because the sun goes down.
There are men and women out there right now, thousands of miles away from a home they aren’t even sure they have anymore, who are fighting a battle that no one else can hear.
Tonight, I wanted to do more than just wear a jersey.
I wanted to tell them that they aren’t invisible.
That even in the deepest, darkest parts of their deployment, someone is always here for them.
That they have a home crowd, even if they can’t hear the cheering yet.
This wasn’t for the record books. It was for the men and women who are still out there, holding it together when the rest of the world has forgotten what it’s like to live in the quiet. ”
I excused myself as quickly as I could, my only focus finding Anna and Cory by the entrance.
Cory was clutching the custom jersey I’d got him, his eyes wide.
“That was incredible, Jackson,” Anna said, her gratitude written in her tired smile.
“My dad always said you were a fast skater, but wow, you were really fast!” Cory shouted, and I knelt down, my heart aching.
“Your dad was a hero, Cory. He loved you more than anything.” I looked up at Anna, the silent question burning in my throat, Is Ryan ok?
She just shook her head, her eyes red. “No word, Jackson. We’re still waiting, but thank you.
Thank you for tonight. We had a great time.
It’s great to do this with Cory, he loves hockey just as much as his dad did.
” My chest tightened, but I just nodded.
I’d keep writing. I’d keep holding on. I look up into the bright stadium lights, hoping and praying that Splash is out there somewhere, fighting like I know he can.