97. Ryan
Ryan
The press room was a cage of blinding white lights and aggressive questions. I stood in the back, tucked into the shadows of the exit door, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. Every camera flash felt like a muzzle flash in the desert, and every shout from a reporter felt like an incoming threat.
I almost turned back. I almost walked out into the cool Seattle night, where the shadows were deep, and no one knew my name.
Then, a reporter’s voice cut through the static, loud and accusing. “Jackson, there are photos of you with a man, the same man who was seen leaving your house. Are you in a relationship? Is this a distraction from your performance on the ice?”
The room went dead silent. Jackson was sitting at the podium, his jersey still damp with sweat. He looked tired, but when he turned his head and scanned the back of the room, his eyes locked onto mine. He didn’t look flustered. He didn’t look like a man trying to hide.
He looked like a man coming home.
“You want to know about the ‘distraction’?” Jackson said, his voice ringing clearly through the microphones. He stood up, but he didn’t address the reporter. He walked past the podium, past the confused PR team, and stopped right in front of me.
He reached out and took my hand. His palm was warm, solid, and completely unafraid.
He pulled me out of the shadows and into the blinding light. The cameras went wild, a frenzy of shutters that would have made me want to scream six months ago. But Jackson’s thumb was tracing small, calming circles against my knuckles.
“This is Ryan,” Jackson said, his voice steady and proud. “He’s not a distraction. He’s the man who holds me up. He’s the reason I play this game with the heart I do. He’s my partner. And if you have a problem with that, then you have a problem with the entire team and me.”
I braced for the blow, the judgment, the whispers, the hate. But as I looked out at the reporters, their expressions shifted from predatory curiosity to something else, confusion, then respect, then silence.
I looked up at Jackson. The noise of the world was still there, buzzing and bright, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like an enemy. I didn’t need the reinforced vault. I didn’t need the shadows. I had the only piece of home I’d ever needed, right here, standing in the light.
“I’m ready,” I whispered, the words barely audible over the hum of the equipment, but Jackson heard them.
“I know,” he smiled, and for the first time, the “Joker” mask was gone. This was just Jackson. Mine. “Let’s go home, Ry.”