81. Ryan
Ryan
The sensory assault of the stadium was finally a distant memory.
Today, the noise was different—it was the bright, chaotic sound of children.
Anna had driven out with Cory, and Logan had arrived with Willow.
Standing in the kitchen, watching the two of them in the living room, I felt a strange, shaky kind of peace.
Since their first meeting at the arena, seeing them together, watching them continue the bond they’d formed, felt like the real beginning of the healing.
Cory, wearing a slightly oversized Tidal Teals jersey with Brody’s old unit number pinned to the shoulder, was cautiously holding one of Jackson’s spare hockey sticks.
Willow, in a neon yellow tutu that clashed spectacularly with the rug, was circling him like a tiny, determined drill sergeant.
“You have to hold it like this,” she commanded, adjusting his grip with her sticky hands.
“Jackson says you have to be the boss of the puck.” Cory looked up at her, wide-eyed, then back down at the stick.
“My dad was a soldier,” he whispered, a small, fragile declaration of pride.
Willow didn’t miss a beat. “My dad says soldiers are superheroes. And my Uncle Ryan draws the best ducks. Do you want to see?” Hearing her call me Uncle Ryan, I want that so much.
I watched them from the doorway, my throat tight.
Cory finally smiled, a genuine, toothy grin that mirrored Brody’s so perfectly it made my heart ache.
Continuing the friendship they started at the game, they sat on the rug, the hockey stick abandoned for a box of crayons, and began to draw.
Willow passed Cory a crayon, “You can use my green crayon if you like.” Watching Brody’s son find a friend in Willow, hearing their laughter bubble up over the quiet hum of the refrigerator, I felt the sharp, jagged edges of the trauma begin to dull.
The soldier in me was still there, but he was standing down.
I wasn’t just surviving anymore; I was watching the future take root in the middle of Jackson’s living room.
I reached for Anna’s hand, squeezing it as we both watched.
We arrived at the stadium, Cory and Willow completely unfazed by the noise, leaned against me, their small weights a perfect, solid anchor.
Willow pointed a sticky finger at the ice.
“Jackson is doing the zoomies!” she yelled over the crowd, her innocent joy cutting through the anxiety.
Anna leaned in, her voice low and steady against my ear.
“He’s safe, Ryan. We’re safe. We’re watching them play.
Just listen to the kids, not the crowd.” The noise became less of a threat and more of a rhythm.
I focused on the gentle press of Anna’s hand in mine and the absolute, total calm emanating from the six-year-old next to me, whose entire attention was devoted to the glowing puck.
The stadium erupted. Jackson skated toward the glass right below our box, found my eyes, and tapped his chest twice, then pointed at me.
I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve Jackson Hayes, but I’m so fucking in love with him.