I’d followed Jackson Armstrong’s career since high school. I’d watched his highlights religiously. I’d—
The footage cut to B-roll.
It showed a sports bar with brick walls, TVs everywhere, and rainbow flags hanging from the ceiling. Behind the bar, carrying a bucket of ice, laughing at something off-camera—
Messy brown hair that curled at the ends.
A beefy frame.
That same easy smile.
“Holy shit,” I breathed.
I was on my feet before I realized I’d moved, pointing at the TV like a crazy person.
“Murph. Murph!”
“What? Bro, what’s happening? Are you having a stroke?”
“That’s Jacks!” I jabbed my finger at the screen. “The guy from Barbacks, the barback—his name is Jacks—Jackson—that’s Jackson Armstrong!”
Murph sat up, squinting at the TV. “The gay bar? The place with the sick sliders?”
“Yes! Look—that’s him—that’s the guy—”
But the segment was already transitioning, the narrator saying something about resilience and second chances as Jacks’s face disappeared and a commercial for truck insurance took over.
“Bro.” Murph was looking at me with a mix of confusion and amusement. “You good? You’re kinda freaking out here.”
“I’m not freaking out. I’m—” I ran a hand through my hair,pacing the small space between our beds. “Okay, I’m a little freaking out, but dude, that guy—Jackson Armstrong—he was my favorite player growing up. He played linebacker for FSU and was supposed to go pro. Everyone said he was a lock for the draft, and then he blew out his knee and disappeared.”
“And now he works at a gay bar in Tampa.”
“Yeah, at the bar Erik, Tyler, and I went to after they blew up on the local news. He’s the barback, the one who—” I stopped, trying to organize my thoughts. “It was so cool seeing him in person, shaking his hand, ya know? And now—”
“You’re having another fanboy moment, aren’t you?” Murph observed. “That’s what’s happening. You’re full-on fanboying right now, right here in our hotel room. Please, for the love of God, don’t make a mess. I’m not cleaning up your splooge.”
“Murph! I’m not—” I caught his grin and sighed. “Okay, maybe a little, but bro, you don’t understand. This guy was incredible. The way he read plays, the way he moved—I used to watch his game films for fun. It’s weird how football vision and hockey vision are the same. I learned a lot by watching his eyes during plays. I even had his jersey.”
“You had his jersey? Seriously?”
“Yep. Number 52. I might still have it somewhereat my parents’ place.” I stopped pacing and sat back down on my bed, staring at the TV like Jacks might reappear if I wished hard enough. “And he’s working at a bar now, serving drinks, after everything he was supposed to be.”
Murph was quiet for a moment, which was alarming.
“That’s rough,” he said. Career-ending accidents were at the top of every pro athlete’s terror list. “Injuries are a bitch. One bad hit, one wrong plant, and it’s all over.” He shrugged. “We both know guys it’s happened to.”
And we did. Too many. Pro sports weren’t designed to extend life or health. In fact, most of them sucked the years from a body the way a leech drank blood. We all knew it when we stepped onto the ice or field or whatever we played on; but money and fame and love of the damn game were too strong to keep us away. It was a gravitational pull greater than any risk of life-altering injury.
Jacks proved that.
And he’d paid the price without ever enjoying the payoff.
Not even for a day.
“We should go back,” I said.
Murph raised an eyebrow. “To the bar?”
