96. Ryan
Ryan
The backyard was a wall of noise, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like the suffocating, demanding volume of the stadium or the media. It was the sound of a barbecue, the hiss of fat hitting the grill, the clink of beer bottles, and the raucous, overlapping laughter of the Tidal Teals.
Jackson’s house, which had felt so vast and hollow when I first arrived, now seemed to vibrate with life.
Logan was at the grill, performing a one-man show of grilling expertise while Donovan tried to argue with him about the char on the hot dogs.
The rest of the team was scattered across the lawn, but no one was sitting apart.
No one was hovering awkwardly. They were talking to me—really talking to me—about hockey, about the league, about everything.
I wasn’t “the soldier” anymore. I was just Jackson’s guy.
I stood near the edge of the deck, a beer in my hand that I’d barely touched, watching the scene unfold.
It was surreal. Not long ago, I was counting dust particles in a barracks.
Now, I was standing in the Pacific sunlight, surrounded by people who didn’t care about my rank, only that I was the one who made Jackson smile.
Down on the dunes, the blending of our worlds was complete.
Willow was currently ‘supervising’ Cory, who was meticulously digging a massive trench in the sand.
They were a unified front, two kids building their own little world, oblivious to the history of war and grief that had brought them to this beach.
Seeing them together, Willow’s bright energy and Cory’s growing confidence, made the knot of anxiety that had lived in my chest since Brody’s death loosen, just a fraction more.
“They’re going to be trouble together,” Jackson said, his voice soft beside me.
He didn’t just stand near me; he stepped in, closing the gap, his arm sliding around my waist in a way that left no room for doubt about who I was to him.
He didn’t bother with the “mask” here. He didn’t look like the team clown or the guarded defenseman. He just looked at peace.
“They look happy,” I said, my voice quiet.
“They are,” Jackson agreed. He looked out at the team, at Donovan laughing at a joke, at Logan tossing a Frisbee, and at the kids playing in the sand.
“You know, the guys were placing bets on who would burn the burgers first. They’re usually insufferable, but today…
They’re just being friends. Our friends. ”
He squeezed my waist, and then, without a shred of hesitation, he turned to face the entire yard. He didn’t hide us. He didn’t angle himself to avoid the gaze of the guys on the lawn. He stood tall, his hand still firmly, possessively, on my side.
“Hey!” Jackson shouted, his voice carrying over the music and the banter. “Quit harassing the cook! And if anyone touches Ryan’s beer, I’m personally seeing to it that you’re benched for the rest of the season.”
A chorus of good-natured jeers erupted from the lawn.
“Don’t worry, Ryan, your drink is safe from Logan!” Donovan shouted back, raising his own glass toward us in a silent toast. “We know who the real boss is!”
I felt the heat rise up my neck, not from the grill, but from the sheer, overwhelming normalcy of it.
For so long, I had believed that acceptance was something I had to fight for, something I had to earn by being “tough enough” or “hiding well enough.” But here, acceptance wasn’t a fight.
It was a beer offered by a teammate, a nod from a captain, and the way Jackson held me without a second thought.
I looked at the man holding me. My head wasn’t a solitary place to hide anymore. It was a crowded, loud, messy house by the sea, filled with people who were finally, officially, on my side.