Jacks was easy to talk to.
And he was funny and genuine in a way that most people weren’t. Tonight had proven that. I’d walked into Barbacks feeling like a wrung-out dishrag, and somewhere between the Space Duke updates and the conversation about shapes that didn’t fit, I’d started to feel human again.
Jacks had done that.
Just by listening.
Just by being there.
I reached my car and slid into the driver’s seat, but I didn’t start the engine. Instead, I sat in the dark, hands on the wheel, staring at nothing.
I’d had friends before. Good friends. Murph, Tyler, and Erik were brothers, guys I’d trust with my life on and off the ice.
Still, talking to them wasn’t like talking to Jacks.
With the team, there was always a layer of performance. It wasn’t fake, not exactly, but curated. I wastheir captain. I had to be steady, reliable, someone they could look up to.
With Jacks, I was . . . just me.
I was the version of myself that didn’t have all the answers, the version that felt broken in ways I couldn’t articulate. And magically, instead of being weird about it, he’d nodded and shared his own broken places, and somehow that had made everything feel less heavy.
I replayed what he’d said about having his whole life planned and losing it, about forcing himself into shapes that didn’t fit. The way his voice had gone quiet, become almost fragile when he talked about football. I closed my eyes and saw the tears he’d fought so hard to keep from falling.
I don’t think he’d meant to let me see that—but he had.
He barely knew me, and he’d let me see him be vulnerable.
But why did that matter so much?
I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, driving on autopilot toward home. The streets were empty, only a few passing taxis and the neon glow of signs above the bars.
Brooke’s voice drifted through my head. “Part of you is always somewhere else.”
And she was right.
She’d been right about everything.
I hadn’t been present with her because some part of me was always waiting for something, reaching for something I couldn’t name.
Tonight, in that booth with Jacks, I hadn’t felt that way. I’d been right there, fully present, hanging on every word he said. The hours had flown by like minutes. I hadn’t checked my phone once, hadn’t thought about hockey or the season or anything except the conversation we were having.
When was the last time that had happened with a date? Or anyone, really?
I couldn’t remember.
My building’s parking garage was quiet when I pulled in, so I sat in the car for another minute after turning off the engine, listening to the tick of the cooling motor.
What was happening to me?
I’d come to Tampa three years ago as a first-round draft pick with everything figured out. I had hockey, a career most only dreamed of, and a real life. I knew who I was and what I wanted. Play hard, win championships, maybe settle down with a nice girl somewhere along the way.
Everything was so simple and clear.
A straight line from point A to point B.
Now that line felt tangled, as though someone hadtaken my carefully mapped route and crumpled it into a ball.
I felt more comfortable talking to a barback I’d known for a few weeks than I did with teammates I’d known for years, and when that barback called me “Sky” in his warm, easy voice, something in my chest did a backflip. Sure, he was my college football hero, but still . . .
