1
Ryan
The stifling heat inside the tent was a physical weight, thick with the smell of diesel, sweat, and cheap canvas. I gripped the thin, sweat-soaked pillow, trying to silence the constant, low hum of the generator outside. I didn’t want to think, or feel, or breathe.
“Just write a letter!” Brody groaned.
I roll over to face the wall, pulling the blanket up to my chin. I can normally sleep through this bullshit—the constant fear, the noise, the crushing homesickness—but today I can’t seem to quiet my mind. Just then, I’m attacked by a notebook flying at my head, slapping against the wall.
“Fucking write something, man,” Brody insists, his voice a low, insistent rumble before he tackles me onto the floor. Dust explodes around us. “You never get letters. You’re always stealing my cookies, too. I promise you it will help to talk to someone who isn’t in this mind fuck of a place! I know you, don’tforget that, Ry, we’ve been in for so long, I don’t remember what my bed feels like.”
I shove him off, scrambling back onto my narrow, unforgiving bunk. The lingering, impossible smell of the double chocolate cookies his wife, Anna, sent over a scent of cinnamon and sugar that smelled nothing like this hell, it was everything I needed to settle me. I had no place to call home. Still, I resist, crossing my arms over my chest, pulling the armor tight. “I’m not sending this.” If I had my way, I wouldn’t write a damn thing. What the hell is a letter going to do? I don’t need some random civilian poking holes in the life I’ve built here. Yeah, I don’t talk to many people apart from Brody, but he’s my best friend. He’s the only thing I have left.
“For fuck’s sake, I’ll do it if you get off of me!” I shout, finally giving into the inevitable. “I’ll write your damn letter.”
As Brody rolls off, his face split by a victorious grin, I finally notice the paper. There are little ducks printed at the bottom of the notebook pages—little teal cartoon ducks that look absurdly out of place in this environment. I look up at him, deadpan. “Are you fucking serious? Ducks?” Brody’s smile is wicked, full of the pure, unadulterated chaos he brings everywhere. “Yeah, I ordered them specifically for you, Ry. I know you draw them. Come on, all the ladies love a good ducking. Give them something to talk about.”
He stands up, grabbing his rifle. “Just write about anything. Keep it light, Ry. It’s supposed to be a distraction, you’re not writing your life away!” He walks out of the tent, leaving me alone with the paper.
I pick up the pen, the ridiculous little duck staring up at me. Little does Brody know, I don’t give a shit about the ladies. One day I’ll tell him. One day, I’ll open up fully to Brody and tell him the real reason I can’t write to some stranger—because what ifthey ask a question that can’t be answered, they will know. I will lose everyone in my life. I will be alone.
2
Letter
Hey random stranger,
Yep, this is totally weird for me too. I’ve been told this is going to help—having someone completely disconnected from the noise to talk to—but I’m not sure what the point is, for all I know, you’re just going to throw this letter away. Still, here we go. Even as I write this, there is a strange anticipation building in my chest, a hope that these words actually reach you and that you’ll find a reason to write back. It’s crazy, isn’t it? We’re total strangers, thousands of miles apart, yet there’s this budding sense of a genuine connection, like I’m finally throwing a line out into the dark and waiting for someone to grab hold. My life is constant, regimented, silent, and sometimes very messy. Well, the idea of you, sitting somewhere in what I imagine is a profound, focused quiet, is the only thingkeeping me grounded today. If you closed your eyes right now, what could you hear?
Me? Well, I can hear my annoying best friend snoring. I’m not joking, it’s so fucking loud! I can smell the cookies his wife sent over, and yes, I’m going to steal them when he isn’t looking. He never shares them! I mean, come on, it’s a fucking cookie!
I’d ask what you could see, but my answer isn’t very interesting. I look up and can only see the side of a building. I can’t even see the stars from here.
Splash
PS — I hope that you’re having a good day wherever you are in the world.
3
Jackson
“Fuck, I’m going to be late!”
The navigation display in my truck says I’ll be sitting in traffic for at least another twenty minutes. I quickly call my team captain. “Hey Donovan, I’m on my way, I promise you!”
He doesn’t sound annoyed at all, just knowing. “You left late, didn’t you? And let me guess—you thought that you would be able to drive here with no extra traffic!”
Fuck, how did he know me so well? Now he was just laughing at me.
“Firstly, fuck you,” I joke, “and secondly, yeah, of course you’re right. I’ll be there in twenty.” Just as I’m about to hang up on him, I hear him chuckling. Fucker.
Cole Donovan has been the Tidal Teals captain for his sixth season, and he is my idol in every way. He’s the first on the ice and the last to leave, but his leadership goes far beyond stats. He’s the steadying force in the locker room, the kind of captainwho doesn’t need to shout to command respect. If I need a check on my game, he’s the one who strips away the shit, telling me exactly what I’m doing right and exactly where I’m failing. He manages to be both the guy pushing you to be perfect and the guy who’s got your back when you’re falling apart, and he does it with a grace that makes you want to work harder just so you don’t let him down.
I finally park my truck twenty-two minutes later. Cap’s gonna fucking have my balls for this, I swear. Walking up, I can see the rest of the team already lining up for pictures with fans. God, I hate this part. Don’t get me wrong, I love our fans, it’s always the same shit, different day. Jackson Hayes, the gay hockey player, women trying to be that one person that turns me straight, me, well, don’t get me started, I’ve been screwed over so many times. They either just want the lifestyle I have or hockey tickets. I’m so tired of it.
“Look who finally decides to show up!” Logan, my fellow defenseman, shouts.
“I’m not that late!” I protest, checking my watch.
