Spoted
Deacon
I slideinto the cab and shut the door. “213 Waverly Place, Greenwich.”
The driver glances at his screen. “You have got to be fucking kidding me, man!”
I look up. “Problem?”
He spins halfway around in the seat, eyes wide like a kid seeing Santa in a deli line.
“You’reDeacon Moretti.”
I blink. “That depends. If you're about to tell me I’ve been voted the ugliest bastard in the league, my lawyer advised me never to confirm my identity in public.”
He laughs loud, hand over his chest like he’s steadying his heart. “Nah, nah. You don’t understand.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been driving this route every morning, hoping one day I’d get you. Manifesting it. Telling guys at my sober house I’d meet you. And now you’re in my backseat.”
Sober house? My spine straightens a little. “You’re in recovery?”
He nods, face softening. “Three years. And I only got there because when I was sixteen, you came to Haven Bridge Youth Home. You talked to us like we mattered. Told us we weren’t fucked forever. That we could come back. That pain wasn’t destiny and family wasn’t just blood.” He swallows. His voice catches.
“You… gave me hope. That I could really be something, someone. I’m in college now. Working this job to pay for tuition. Got roommates who are all trying too. We’re clean. We’re all building something, becoming ya know, like you said. And you were—” He breathes out. “You were the first person who ever said a kid like me had a shot at better.”
Silence crawls between us for a second.
My throat goes tight. Not from embarrassment. Not from pride. From… something heavier. Deep. A reminder of a younger version of me.
I clear my throat. “Good for you, man. That’s all you. You did the work.”
He wipes his eyes quickly. “Yeah—yeah. But you lit the fuse.”
He faces forward, trying to pull it together, and starts the meter.
“You know, most players talk charity. Cameras, hashtags, all that crap. But you showed up without press. Without PR. Without even a jersey.” He grins. “You just sat with us. Ate cafeteria spaghetti. And talked.”
I grunt. “That spaghetti was a hate crime.”
He laughs again, sniffles. “Yeah, it was terrible.”
He pulls into traffic, voice steadier. “Anyway—today? This right here? This is proof good shit comes back around.”
Maybe. Or maybe life just likes to kick you in the head, then give you a breadcrumb to make you keep walking forward for another mile.
He doesn’t know what I saw last night. What I felt holding a baby that isn’t mine.
What it did to my chest.
That’s a thought I can’t even deal with yet.
I lean back, close my eyes, and hand pressing gently over the tender spot on my skull.
“You good, Moretti?”
I answer. “Will be.”
His tone shifts, almost shy. “You know you changed someone’s life, right?”
I crack one eye open, staring at the back of his headrest.
