"I remember. Emma was pissed."
"Everyone was pissed. And I spent the entire off-season replaying that moment, thinking about what I should have done differently, terrified that when the new season started, I'd make the same mistake, freeze up when it mattered."
I study him across the table. "But you didn't."
"No. Because freezing up wasn't an option, the team needed me to lead, so I led." He meets my eyes. "You're going to figurethis out, Maya. Maybe not today. Maybe not for a while. But you will."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're you. And you don't quit."
The certainty in his voice makes my throat tight. He believes it, actually believes I'm capable of putting myself back together. I wish I had that kind of faith in myself.
We sit in silence for a minute, and I force myself to take a bite of the sandwich. It tastes like cardboard, but Jackson's right. I need to eat something.
"Thanks," I say quietly. "For this. For listening and not telling me I'm being dramatic."
"You're not dramatic. You're dealing with shit." He finishes his sandwich and crumples the wrapper. "And for what it's worth, I think you'll be an incredible nurse again when you're ready. Those kids will be lucky to have you."
The tears are back. I blink hard, staring at my coffee cup.
"Don't make me cry in public, Ice Capades."
He grins. "There she is."
"Who?"
"The Maya who gives me shit instead of pretending everything's fine."
My stomach twists. He sees it, sees through all my carefully constructed walls straight to the mess underneath.
"I'm not pretending?—"
"Yeah, you are. Have been since you got here." His voice is gentle, not accusatory, just honest. "You don't have to do that with me. The performance, the jokes to deflect. You can just be you."
I want to argue, want to say he doesn't know what he's talking about.
But he does. He sees exactly what I've been doing.
And instead of calling me out or pushing me away, he's sitting here offering me space to stop pretending.
"I don't know how to do that anymore," I admit. "Be me without the performance."
"Then figure it out. I'll wait."
The simplicity of it breaks something open in my chest. Not in a painful way, in a way that feels like finally exhaling after holding my breath too long.
We finish our coffee in comfortable silence. Outside the window, leaves drift down from trees, and people walk by with shopping bags and dogs on leashes. Life continues like it always does, indifferent to whether I'm drowning or swimming.
The barista wipes down the counter, and somewhere in the back, a coffee grinder whirs to life. Jackson checks his phone, types out a quick response to someone, then slides it back into his pocket. He doesn't rush me, doesn't suggest we leave, just sits here like he has all the time in the world.
It's such a small thing, but it feels massive. Like he's telling me without words that I'm worth waiting for, that my pace is okay, that I don't have to perform or pretend or be anything other than what I am right now.
Which is broken. But maybe being broken isn't the end of the story.
"You ready?" he asks eventually.
I nod and stand, leaving half the sandwich on the table. He doesn't comment on it, just holds the door open as we head back outside.
