I’m here, always. Talk to me. What can you see, hear, and smell right now?
I can see Mario Kart being played. I’m on a team road trip, and the entire defensive lineup is currently in the middle of a massive Mario tournament! Fucking children! I can hear my teammate on the phone with his wife, talking about the upcoming weekend. I can smell… well, fuck, I don’t think you actually want to know what I can smell. A hockey bus is the absolute worst.
Thank you for trusting me with the reason behind your ducks. I’m sure your grandpa is so proud of the man that you have become. Finding an outlet for your anxiety is great. What’s even better is that the cutest ducks are drawn inpossibly the hardest times for you. Be proud of your ducks, I certainly am.
I’m always here, soldier.
Jackson
42
Ryan
The base was quiet, but the silence inside my head was a screaming match. I lay rigid on my bunk, the flimsy mattress suddenly feeling like a slab of cold rock, unable to move a single muscle as the panic seized my chest. Every flicker of the fluorescent light became the flash of the IED, and the low hum of the generator transformed into the high-pitched whine of the blast. I was stuck in a relentless loop: the metallic smell of copper and blood, the heavy drag of the patrol, and the impossible, suffocating weight of the war pressing down on me. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to outrun the images, but the darkness was worse, pulling me down into a familiar vortex of terror. Brody was suddenly sitting on the edge of my bunk, his hand resting firmly on my shoulder.
“Ry,” he murmured, his voice steady and grounding, cutting through the ringing in my ears and the internal noise. “You’re doing it again. You’re letting the sand win. Come back to me.” Itried to turn away, the memory of the explosion a fresh wave of agony that tightened my throat.
“It won’t stop, Brody. I can’t.” He squeezed my shoulder, his grip solid and very real. “Yeah, it will. I’m right here, man, watching your six. You think I’d leave you alone with that mess? Just breathe. Focus on my voice.” He paused, a small smile tugging at his lips, deliberately changing the subject to something light.
“I was talking to Cory on the satellite phone earlier. He’s getting so big, Ry. I even told him all about your ‘Cookie Monster’ and the care packages. Kid thinks you’re some kind of sugar-fueled superhero, flying in with triple chocolate justice.” He didn’t move, staying right there in the small room, his presence a physical shield against the ghosts of the valley, pulling me tether by tether back to the present.
I took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing myself to feel the rough fabric of the bunk and the steady weight of my best friend’s hand, grounding myself in the quiet reality of us both being defensive. Brody reached into my pocket, knowing that Jackson’s latest letter would be there. He pulled it out carefully and started to read it to me. Jackson’s words hit me like a freight train, pulling me out of the darkness.
43
Letter
Splash,
Imagine a hockey player. Now imagine you’re cuddling him while eating a cookie… that is what I’m thinking about right now. Sending you such big cookie cuddles.
I know you’re in a heavy spot right now, my soldier. I wish I could get on the next flight out there, rip you right out of that barracks, and bring you home to a silent house and the softest sheets you’ve ever felt. I can’t do that, but I can keep sending these absurd daydreams. I picture us sitting on my couch, you, completely worn out, leaning your head against my shoulder, and me, finally getting to see that small, genuine smile you hide from everyone else. We’d be sharing a packet of those triple-chocolate ones, and my biggest problem would be getting the crumbs out of my carpet. That’s the quiet pond I’m holding for you, Splash.
Just hold on for me, and know that every ridiculous thought, every cookie, and every duck drawing you send is getting me through my own noisy day. You don’t have to carry the weight alone. Just keep breathing.
Always,
Jackson
44
Jackson
Janette from PR stands up at the front of the room. “So, I want your input on an idea that has been brought to my attention,” she says. I look up, noticing that she is looking directly at me. “How would everyone feel about a Military Appreciation Night?” Some of the guys look over in my direction, while others look at Janette and nod firmly. “I was thinking we could do this as part of one of our upcoming home games,” she continues. “I went ahead and put together a prototype of the jerseys you would wear for warm-ups.” She reaches down and holds up a striking camouflage Tidal Teals jersey. We are trying to raise awareness for critical but invisible needs within the military. PTSD is a serious condition that affects so many military personnel throughout their life. It’s completely invisible, raising awareness by having these appreciation nights is letting these soldiersknow that we support them, even with conditions affecting their daily survival.
I absolutely love this. This wasn’t just a charity event; this was a direct line to Splash. It was a game plan. Donovan, who is sitting right next to me, holds out his fist for a silent bump. “I hope this is the kind of thing you were thinking?” I love this team. “It’s fucking perfect,” I said as I bumped his fist.
I waited until the PR meeting dispersed before catching Donovan by the equipment bags. “Hey, Cap. Can I ask you something?” Donovan stopped, sensing the shift in my tone. “Sure. What’s on your mind?” “Your brother… when he talks about being over there,” I started, looking down at the camouflage jersey still in my hands. “Does he ever talk about the toll it takes? Not just the physical stuff, but the mental side? I just got a letter from Splash and… it sounded heavy. Like he’s carrying a lot at the moment.” Donovan’s expression softened into something more somber. “He doesn’t say much, but you see it in the eyes, Jackson. It’s a different kind of exhaustion. You can fix a broken bone, but the things they see and the choices they have to make… that kind of trauma doesn’t just wash off in the shower. It changes the way they hear the wind, the way they sleep. It’s a heavy price.”
I clutched the jersey, the camouflage material feeling like a physical responsibility. I couldn’t be there with Splash, couldn’t share the silence of his dark nights, but I could make the world here a little brighter for him. I could make sure he knew he wasn’t alone. The entire night—the lights, the crowd, the loud, chaotic energy of the stadium—it was all going to be my way of standing on his wing. I wanted the noise of the home crowd to be so loud it drowned out the ringing in his ears, even across the world.
45
Ryan
The air was so damn still it felt like the world was holding its breath. We were deep in the valley, just Brody and me, running point, the patrol just ahead of us. The heat was a physical weight, baking the scent of dust and hot metal into our uniforms. I wiped a bead of sweat from my eyes, my thumb tracing the worn edge of Jackson’s latest letter tucked into my breast pocket—the only tether to a world beyond the ridge’s harsh reality. Brody nudged me with his rifle, his face set in that professional mask of calm, but I could see the slight tension in his jaw. “We’re almost there, Ry. Head on a swivel.” I nodded, scanning the jagged rocks for any movement, my heart rhythmically thudding against the armor plating of my vest.
The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was heavy, vibrating with an unspoken threat that made every nerve ending fire. I focused on the crunch of my boots on the loose gravel, counting the steps to keep the anxiety at bay, unaware that the world was about tosimply cease to exist. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a physical obliteration of reality. A massive IED detonated twenty yards to our left, and the concussion hit me like a freight train, a wall of superheated air and grit that slammed into my chest and lifted me off my boots. My head whipped back, my skull vibrating against the inside of my helmet with a sickening jar. I hit the ground hard, the air driven from my lungs in a silent, agonizing rush. My ears weren’t just ringing, they were screaming a high-pitched, jagged whine that felt like a hot needle driven through my brain, drowning out the sudden, frantic chatter of small arms fire.
