Fine, I’ll buy a Big Mac jersey.
Just got my tickets to round 1, game 1. Let’s go New York!
Thousands of comments are coming in, nearly doubling as I continue to scroll through them, my eyes consuming as many as I can, as fast as I can. I always play better when the fans are supporting me.
A heavy thought weighs in the back of my mind, and I ignore it. But that little itch grows … the irritating sensation traveling down my throat. No matter how far from my past I try to put myself, I can’t help but be reminded in moments like this.
Social media is a dangerous tool, and it lives in the hands of nearly every person, most of whom are unaware or uncaring of the consequences and the risks. But I learned firsthand how harmful the apps can be. Yet here I am, using them the same, if not more, than I did back then.
But it’s been a long time since I had to battle any suicidal thoughts, no matter how bad social media has gotten over the years. One day, the people love me, sharing love and excitement for having me on the Nighthawks team. Other times? They shred me to pieces, imagining there isn’t a real person on the other side. At least, that’s what I hope it is—because if not, the comments are so much crueler.
Then there are the messages. Three types of people send messages to pro athletes. To shoot their shot romantically. To try to get free tickets or attention from a player. Or to send threats and wishing of harm.
Thankfully, the first two are the majority of what I’ve been receiving lately. But I’m well accustomed to the wishes of harm. What always surprises me most is that a good chunk of the commenters are people who have some kind of inclusive quote in their bio about loving everyone. But then they slide in my messages and tell me to off myself.
A few bad comments catch my eye. I read over them with a lump in my throat.
Could have been better.
Huang’s a better goalie. Sit, Big Mac!
What happens when Big Mac’s engine runs out?
At least he’s not choking like he did last year.
You’d better not let us down, Matty!
Mentally, I make a promise to both myself and to the fans.I’m not going to let you down.
“What’re you doing over there?” Jensen, or JD, leans over, eyeing my phone cautiously.
“Just scrolling,” I answer truthfully. “But I’ll be done.”
“Good.” Jensen laughs, relaxing the tense arm at his side. “I was worried that I’d have to pry it out of your hands. Come on. At least try to relax.”
Apparently, it’s not a secret that I hyper-obsess over my game play and all things Nighthawks. But I don’t know any other way to function.
I glance around the table. Everyone is smiling and talking to their partner or the player near them, and I just feel so … isolated. It’s not their fault, and I’m happy for them. But, fuck, being surrounded by these perfect couples can be a little overwhelming.
I’m not here with someone to keep me company. Clearly, I’m also not adding anything of interest to the conversations.
I internally cringe at the pity party happening in my mind, annoyed that I’m uncomfortable sitting here at all. These are myfavorite people in the entire world. They’re my home away from home. So, why am I crawling in my skin right now, desperate to be anywhere else?
Taking a deep, shaky breath in, I try to center and pull myself back from completely freaking out and leaving immediately.
I’m fine. It’s fine. I don’t need to be on social media. I don’t need to start studying our next opponent’s players and see what’s new before the next game. I don’t need to be as prepared as possible to help ensure our win and success in the first round.
A piece of popcorn bounces off of my cheek, and I stifle a laugh, tucking my tongue between my teeth. I already know who it came from without looking up from the table. Straight from the direction of Brett. If it wasn’t for the direction, I would have been able to tell from his giggles that broke out before the kernel even reached me.
My eyes flick up to him, and I hide any amusement in my gaze. His eyes narrow, and he reloads his hand with popcorn, readying to fire again.
“Don’t you dare, Burnsy,” I threaten him.
He sits up taller, hand still at the ready. “Bring it on, Matty Boy.”
“Boys.” Kos laughs, cutting the tension between us. There’s a warning hidden in his word. “Behave.”
“You’re no fun, Dad!” Burnsy whines, flipping Kos off before slamming the handful of popcorn into his mouth.
