THIRTY-FOUR
SILAS
The email confirmationlands in my inbox at 4:36 p.m.
Certification Complete.
Official Documentation to Follow.
Congratulations .
I stare at it for a long time. No fanfare. No balloons or cake. Just a subject line and a PDF.
Still, it means something.
It means I did it.
After months of late-night modules, case studies, awkward role-play simulations with overly enthusiastic online classmates, and enough reading to make my eyes ache, I passed the final milestone for my sports psych certification. It wasn't just about the credential—it was about reclaimingwhat I'd lost.
Back when I was coaching, I'd seen too many kids like Luke: talented, driven, but carrying invisible weights. The kind that could break them if no one noticed. I'd failed him in ways I couldn't fix then, but this? This was my way of making sure I wouldn't fail anyone else. Or maybe, deep down, it was my way of proving to myself that I could be more than the guy who got fired for falling in love.
I lean back in the creaky chair, blinking at the low light bleeding in through the blinds. It’s just past sunset. Another shift starts in an hour, but for now, the apartment is silent. Still. Unchanged.
The same framed posters from my coaching days hang crooked on the walls—motivational quotes about perseverance that now feel like mocking echoes. Dust gathers on the shelf where I used to keep game tapes, and the fridge hums faintly, stocked with nothing but beer and takeout leftovers. No laughter bouncing off the walls, no shared meals. Just me in this space that's too big for one person but also too small for regrets.
No one to tell. No one to celebrate with.
I crack open a beer, take a sip, and let the carbonation burn down my throat as I stare at the screen again—at the proof that I’m not just… treading water anymore.
I’m building something.
I pull out my phone before I can overthink it.
Luke. His name is still there. I never deleted it. I tried a few times and always ended up adding it back in; I probably know his number by heart now.
My thumb hovers.
Hey. I know this is random. But I just finished something important, and for some reason…you’re still the first person I want to tell. I hope you’re doing well. Actually, I hope you’re doing amazing.
I stare at the blinking cursor. Breathe. My mind flashes to that last game—the hit coming out of nowhere on the field, the crack of pads, Luke crumpling under the pile. He didn't get up. Flashes of them loading him on the stretcher, the panic I felt, the need to go with them until they told me no. Then I stood frozen on the sideline, heart in my throat, watching them load him up while the crowd's roar faded to stunned silence.
I wanted to go to the hospital. God, I wanted to run straight there, sit by his bed, hold his hand through the pain and the fear. But I couldn't. Showing up would've lit the scandal on fire—coach and player, age gap, the whole ugly headline waiting to happen. It would've ruined him: eligibility gone, recruiters backing off, his future torched before he even healed. He was twenty-one, full of fire and promise; I was the one who'd already cost him enough.
So I drove home instead. Sat in the dark kitchen with my phone shaking in my hand. Typed the goodbye. Clean break. Then I poured a drink I didn't finish and let the silence swallow me. Left him to face the hospital alone, no visit, no explanation beyond those cold words on a screen.
He was so bright then, and I was the idiot who thought abandoning him was the kindest thing I could do.
But now? I've scrolled his profile late at night—seen him back on the field, thriving, posting about new plays, big wins, laughing with his teammates and friends. That smile again, bright and whole, aimed at the camera instead of me.
He's healed. Moved on.
And I'm still here, wondering if I ever really let him go.
If he's moved on completely, I shouldn’t text him. What if I'm just a ghost from a scandal he wants to forget?
I delete the text without sending it.
Because I remember.
