24
Ryan
I stared down at the tray in front of me, poking at a heap of grey, unidentifiable protein that was supposedly chicken. The food here is a special kind of terrible—completely dry, devoid of any salt, and tasting mostly of the plastic tray it’s served on. It’s the kind of tasteless fuel you just force down because your body needs the calories to keep moving, not because you actually want to eat it.
My gaze drifted to a bowl sitting at the end of the serving counter. It was filled with what I think were meant to be mandarins, but they looked more like shriveled, orange stress balls. They were tiny, bruised, and looked like they’d been sitting there since the base was commissioned. I watched a fly consider landing on one before seemingly changing its mind and moving on to something more appetizing, like a puddle of industrial cleaner.
I was staring aimlessly at the bruised mandarin bowl when Brody’s massive frame slid onto the bench across from me, a tray full of the exact same grey protein he was about to pretend was edible.
“Hey, Ry. You gonna eat those?” Brody asked, pointing to the mandarins. “They look like they’ve been in a fight.”
“You’re welcome to them,” I muttered, pushing my tray away. “Thinking about writing to the Cookie Monster about this audacity. He’d probably send me a triple chocolate cookie just for surviving the mess hall.”
Brody chuckled, a low rumble. “Anna sent me a picture of Cory this morning. Kid’s got his first two missing teeth. You should see the gap, Ry. Looks like he’s trying to whistle at everything.” He paused, his eyes softening as he looked out the window, clearly seeing something far beyond the sandbags. “Anna says he wants me to teach him how to skate when I get home. Got him this tiny Tidal Teals jersey. She’s already counting down the days until I’m back in Tidehaven.”
I nodded, feeling a familiar pang of longing for that civilian world, a world Brody had waiting for him and one I was slowly realizing I wanted, too. The contrast between his life and mine was stark, but hearing him talk about Anna and Cory—about a real home—made the desert feel a little less absolute.
I couldn’t help but let out a small, huffed breath of a laugh. I knew exactly what I was going to write in my next letter to Jackson. Describing these sad, pathetic ‘mandarin things’ and the general culinary disaster of the mess hall would be the perfect way to lighten the mood. Jackson, with his fancy bakery cookies and burnt bacon stories, would probably have a field day with this. It was a stupid, small detail, but imagining his reaction was the only thing making this meal remotely bearable.
25
Letter
Splash,
A fresh batch of the triple chocolate ones should be incoming by Tuesday. The girl at the bakery asked me today who I was shipping all these boxes to. I told her they were for a top-secret military asset who protects the free world and also happens to have a serious sugar addiction. I didn’t tell her that writing these letters to you is the only part of my week where I don’t feel like I’m acting.
A lot of that “Jackson the Joker” performance came in handy last week, especially after I saw what was trending online. A major sports blogger put out a massive, ugly post saying that gay hockey players don’t belong in the league—that we’re a distraction and soft. Of course, the trolls tagged me a hundred times. Logan saw it first and literally hid my phone from me. I had to wrestle it back, but the damage was done.It makes you feel like absolute shit, Splash. Like, no matter how many goals I score or how many shifts I take, all people see is who I share my bed with. Why does it even matter who someone loves? It’s completely exhausting having to deal with that kind of hate, and sometimes I wonder if I should just stop giving the media what they want.
We had a team media day yesterday, and I did my usual bit—cracked a few jokes for the cameras, made the room laugh, and gave a kid a high-five. Everyone loves Jackson, the Joker. But when I got back to my hotel room, I just stared at the page you sent last week.
I can see you on the paper, Splash. I read your words, and I try to imagine what your voice sounds like. Is it deep? Do you talk fast? I watch the guys on my team, and I try to imagine what it’s like for you over there, living in a barracks, having to guard your thoughts and your identity every single second. It must be so damn lonely to feel like the most dangerous thing in a war zone is just being yourself. You don’t have to wear the armor in these envelopes. You can just be you with me.
Always,
Jackson
26
Letter
Jackson,
The delivery landed. Brody launched himself at the box, but I managed to wrestle it away. He saw your name on the return label and asked why a pro hockey player was mailing me cookies. I told him that you were my Jackson. I think he went into shock; he even stopped eating a cookie, it was priceless! I didn’t tell him that I listen to your game broadcasts on a small radio under a camo net while the desert wind rattles the tent.I find myself wondering what it would feel like to actually stand in front of you. To see you smile in person.
I read what you said about that blogger and the trolls. It makes my blood boil. People who call you “soft” or a “distraction” wouldn’t last a single minute in your world, let alone mine. There is nothing soft about being exactly who you are in a place that tries to force you into a mold. Those peopledon’t see the strength it takes to step out on that ice every night, knowing the cameras are looking for a reason to pick you apart. You aren’t a distraction, Jackson; you’re the heart of that team. Don’t let their hate make you smaller. The only people who think your sexuality matters more than your talent are the ones who are too afraid to live as honestly as you do. I realize how hypocritical I am. I’m just tired of the mask today.
It’s different here. Everything is gray concrete, dust, and rules. If you’re… different… You learn to hide it fast. You spend twenty-four hours a day pretending to be a version of yourself that everyone else expects. It’s an exhausting kind of quiet. But reading your letters is the only time I get to take a breath. I don’t know your voice, and I’ve never held your hand, but you have the most beautiful, gentle soul of anyone I’ve ever known. Don’t let the cameras change that. You are the only good thing I have to look forward to over here.
Splash
27
Ryan
The desert air was uncharacteristically still as we sat on the hood of the flatbed. The stars were out in full force, a silent audience to our temporary peace. Brody nudged my shoulder with his, a lazy grin on his face.
“I’m telling you, Ry, once this tour is done, I’m taking Anna and Cory to that cabin in the Cascades. No phones, no diesel fumes, just the trees and her cooking.” He sighed, the sound full of a longing he usually kept tucked under his armor. “I want to see Cory grow up without wondering if his old man is coming back every six months.”
