The next part is the hardest, “I’m not going to pretend it didn’t hurt. Or that I’m not angry, or ashamed, or scared. But if you want the real story, here it is, I watched four of my teammates die. I stepped over my captain's body to survive.
And I spent the last year trying to convince myself I could be normal again if I just tried hard enough. Turns out, nobody gets normal after something like that.”
I add, “I wish I could tell you the rest, but it’s complicated. If you’re looking for some dirt, here’s what I’ve got, I loved someone who wasn't supposed to love me back. He made me feel like the only person in the room. And I let someone else fool me into thinking I didn't deserve that. I was wrong.”
I sign it with my number, #72, and my name. I want to say more.
I want to go back and change the verbs, make it sound smarter, funnier, more like the guy who can skate through any disaster and come out with a joke.
But I’m done with that.
I hit “post.”
For five seconds, nothing happens.
Then the phone on the table explodes with light.
The notifications hit so fast the screen can’t keep up, like it’s being punched by a hundred tiny fists.
At first it’s just the regulars, Tommy, Raz, the team group chat, a couple of reporters. Then it’s strangers. A blue checkmark from a sports blogger I hate.
Three DMs from numbers I don’t recognize. Then more. And more.
I want to smash the phone, or throw it out the window, or flush it down the shower drain and pretend I never saw any of it. But I don’t.
I just sit there, breathing through the pulse in my hands, watching as the comments pile up, a rising tide of opinion.
Most of it is noise. Some of it is support. A lot of it isn’t.
I set the phone to silent, flip it over so the screen is down, and get up from the table.
I walk to the window, stare out at the city lights, the distant haze of a bar closing, the headlights flickering across wet pavement.
The world looks the same as it did an hour ago, but inside everything is sideways and raw.
I go back, pick up the phone, and dial.
He picks up on the first ring.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
It’s just the sound of his breath, even and slow, like he’s measuring every inhale before letting it out.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Darius says, voice quiet but sharper than I remember.
I swallow. “Yeah, I did. I'm done getting back up and pretending the hit didn't hurt.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then: “I read it.”
Of course he did. “You think I made it worse?”
He laughs, the sound brittle. “No. You made it real. Which is all anybody can ask.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just breathe. The relief is so heavy it makes me dizzy.
There’s a click on the line, then the sound of Darius exhaling. “I’m proud of you,” he says, softer this time. “Even if I wish I could have protected you from all of this.”
My chest hurts. “You did. You do. Just…” The words catch. “Let me have this one, okay?”
