7
Jackson
The moment the new letter hit my hands, everything else faded. It was like getting more ice time in a world that was terrifyingly real and beautifully simple. I found myself sitting in the back booth of a loud, dimly lit bar with the rest of the team. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne, cheap beer, and the desperate, floral perfume of the puck bunnies who always seemed to find us. They were everywhere tonight, draped over the bar and leaning into our table with practiced pouts and eyes that only saw the jersey, not the man wearing it.
“Hey Jackson, why so quiet tonight?” a blonde in a crop top asked, sliding onto the bench next to me and resting a manicured hand on my arm. I gave her a polite, distant smile, the kind I’d perfected for media days, and gently moved my arm to grab my drink. I had zero interest. To her, I was a starting defenseman with a nice contract; to the man who wrote me from a desert tent, I was just Jackson, the guy who couldn’t cookbacon. I felt the envelope in my inner jacket pocket, the paper a physical weight against my chest. The sheer audacity of someone in a war zone taking the time to respond to my stories made me so happy. While Logan was busy entertaining a small crowd of fans with stories from practice, a rare night out for him, I was mentally tracing the little cartoon duck drawn next to Splash’s signature.
He was the only person who seemed to care about the real Jackson. He asked about my king-size bed and cookies, and the exchange felt light, funny, and desperately normal. When I read his words, the noise of the bar and the fluttering fans faded, and I could almost feel the quiet of his base under the stars. His honesty was a refreshing contrast to the polished PR responses I gave daily. With Splash, I didn’t have to be a superstar. This connection felt like a new game plan, a secret sanctuary where words mattered more than stats. I just needed to get home, away from the bright lights and the noise, so I could finally write back and tell him I was thinking of him.
8
Ryan
The sun is beating down on the makeshift pitch we’d carved out of the dirt lot behind the mess hall. Downtime was a fragile, precious thing, and we weren’t wasting a second. The other soldiers around us were a unified sight of sweat, grime, and combat fatigue, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten for the simple purpose of a game. We’d tossed the helmets and armor aside for a worn, slightly deflated football. The rules were simple: no tackles, just grab and go, and Brody was already cheating. “Pass it, Ry! I’m wide open!” Brody yelled, already sprinting toward the nonexistent end zone, two of the younger guys trailing behind him. He looked utterly ridiculous, six foot one of pure muscle, chasing a worn football like his life depended on it. I grinned, launching the ball in a perfect spiral right over the heads of the opposing team. Brody snatched it out of the air, spiking it dramatically into the dirt with a celebratory yell that echoed across the base. He jogged back, punching myshoulder lightly. “See, Ry? That’s what teamwork looks like. You supply the arm, I supply the ego.” “You’re just excited because Anna sent those protein bars.” I shot back, rubbing my shoulder. “You’ve been a machine all afternoon.” He laughed, a genuine, booming sound that quieted the anxieties I usually carried.
The constant smell of diesel and dust was our oxygen, and the unforgiving heat was our blanket. I couldn’t help but think about the letters: Jackson was worried about rush hour traffic and burning bacon on his stove, while our biggest win of the afternoon was scoring a protein bar. Our two worlds couldn’t be farther apart, yet here, in this dusty lot, Jackson’s world felt just as real as mine. “Guilty. But seriously, man, this is the good stuff. Just being here, with you, not thinking about the sand for a minute. When we get home, we’re doing this every Sunday. Anna will make the burgers, and you, my friend, will finally meet the man who can’t cook for shit.” I looked at him, his face flushed with exertion and happiness. He was my family, my lifeline to everything real. Even thousands of miles from home, in a dusty lot with a cheap football, moments like this felt like a solid, unbreakable promise.
9
Jackson
The air in the locker room was thick and heavy, a suffocating mixture of sweat, ointments from the trainers’ room, and the cold, metallic scent of melted ice. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest after the punishing two-hour practice. It was a skate until you drop session that left most of the team exhausted on the benches, pulling off gear with agonizing slowness. The intensity had been so brutal that a few of the rookies were doubled over near the trash cans, actually sick from the sheer physical toll of the drills. I was oblivious to the general suffering, perched on my bench with my helmet resting by my feet, entirely focused on the letter in my hand.
“Hey!”
A towel lands straight on my head, snapping me out of my thoughts. “That smells disgusting! Who threw it?!” I yell.
I was so engrossed in re-reading the latest letter from Splash that I hadn’t even noticed my teammates messing aroundin front of me. The massive grin on Logan’s face tells me everything.
“So, who’s put that smile on your face?” Logan teases.
“Not you, you fucker!” I shoot back.
Donovan sits down on the bench next to me. “Talk to me, Hayes. Who’s the letter from?”
I felt a sudden spike of nervousness. Should I really be this anxious about telling my team captain that I had a pen pal? Was he a pen pal? Nope, that doesn’t sound right at all! It sounded so stupid out loud. “Erm, well, you know that charity event that was here at the stadium last month?” Donovan nodded, eyeing me suspiciously. “I kinda signed up for this thing where you get letters from someone in the military. Did you know they did that? It feels like I’m talking to a secret spy right now. How crazy is that?”
I passed the latest page, pointing to the corner. “And look at this. He drew a little duck wearing tiny hockey skates. I mean, he’s thousands of miles away in a desert, and he’s taking the time to draw me this. It’s a lot, you know.”
Donovan smiled, chuckling to himself. “Yeah, Willow draws pictures and sends them out to the guys. We usually give them to my brother, since he’s enlisted.” We sat in comfortable silence for a minute before he added, “It’s really cool that you’re doing it, Hayes. I know a lot of those guys don’t have anyone to talk to, or want to talk to, for that matter. They’re carrying that kind of silence while our lives are all noise. You’re great with your words, and trust me, having someone disconnected from the noise to talk to helps. You’re providing him with a way to find a teammate. I can guarantee you won’t know how much receiving a letter will mean to him. Imagine the things they all go through and see every day. I bet the letters you send take him out of that world, even if just for a moment. You can sent other things too. Isend my brother his favorite chocolate bar and protein powder.” Just then, an idea formed in my head.
10
Letter
Splash,
So I have to be honest here—even after a few letters, I can tell you’re amazing. But your last letter highlighted some serious no-go areas. We can’t talk about delicious food, and we can’t talk about big beds… am I right? If so, we should probably stop talking altogether! I mean, that’s all I have going for me in my life right now: good food and a good bed. Unfortunately, I have no one to share either of them with. Coming home to an empty house that’s too big is the absolute worst. I have this amazing life on paper, but I’m lonely, Splash. I really want someone to share the quiet mornings and the big moments with. I’m tired of being the only one sitting at my king-size table.
Listen, I don’t feel like I can be myself around anyone here. That’s a massive reason why I started writing to you. I want to be able to be completely myself around at least one person inmy life, even if they are miles away and we might never meet, but god do I hope that we can meet!
With that in mind, I promise to always be honest with you.Sothere’s something I want to tell you, I’m gay. It’s not a secret in my life; my parents were incredibly supportive when I came out, and I couldn’t have asked for better people around me. I’m telling you this because I want you to know the real me, and I hope you don’t mind the disclosure. If you do, then I guess you’ve just broken my heart. I was kinda hoping there was a sexy soldier at the end of these letters.
When I signed up, the coordinator mentioned that some personnel don’t have anyone writing to them. I assume no family, then? That’s my question for you. My parents are currently living their best retired life in Vegas. They support me in absolutely everything I do, sometimes a little too much. Even with them, it feels like I’m entirely on my own, and at the fine old age of 26, it’s a bit depressing, to be honest.
I get the need to just close your eyes and breathe. More than you know.
Jackson
