I blink, caught off guard.
She waits. “Would you?”
I swallow. “No. I’d talk to her.”
She writes something, then looks up. “So why is it different with Ash?”
The answer comes to me so fast it’s like getting hit in the chest. “Because I’m scared.”
She nods. “That’s a good start. What else?”
I think about it. “Because it’s easier to believe the worst than risk…everything.”
She leans in, her voice low. “Easier doesn’t mean better, Darius. It just means familiar.”
For a second, I want to cry. But instead, I sit up straight, square my shoulders, and look her in the eye.
“I don’t want to be the guy who lets fear call the plays.”
She smiles, small and proud. “Then don’t.”
The session ends ten minutes early. I thank her, shake her hand, and walk out feeling lighter than I have in months. Maybe years.
In the parking garage, I sit in the car, engine off, hands on the wheel. The city is still gray, but it doesn’t feel hopeless.
I take out my phone, thumb hovering over Ash’s name. It’s not even a question anymore.
I press call.
Whatever happens next, it’s mine.
And this time, I’m not running from it.
THE LETTER
The notifications pop like popcorn, constant, a machine gun of hearts and skulls and rainbow flags exploding across my phone until the battery runs red and the screen is too hot to touch.
I set it on the window ledge and watch it vibrate in place, spinning slow on the cracked glass like a dying beetle.
"Steelhawks Legend: Gay as Balls," the first headline said, the rest just get more creative from there.
By noon my DMs are a salad bar of congratulatory memes, clumsy come-ons from men in sunglasses and anonymous egg avatars telling me they're going to break my kneecaps if I ever set foot in Montana again.
Rainbow. Rainbow. Thumbs up. Gun. Eggplant. Skull.
I try to keep up, but every reply I type comes out sounding like a hostage video.
The PR lady, who I’m ninety percent sure has never watched a hockey game in her life, texts me every fifteen minutes: “Let me know if you’re okay?” “Do not respond to trolls.” “Take time for you.”
I haven’t eaten since the Pop-Tart last night. It’s still on the coffee table, bite taken out, edges crisped from the toaster, now hard as a puck.
My car, parked downstairs in the alley, still smells like paint.
I spent an hour scrubbing the back panel with a bottle of degreaser and the steel wool from under the sink, but the outline of the word "FAGIT" is still there, a ghostly shadow over the trunk.
Not even spelled right.
I took a picture. Had to.
