Because I’m not sure I am. But I nod anyway.
“Yeah.”
He claps my shoulder once, firm, grounding, then steps back, letting the moment pass without dragging it out.
The rest of the room slowly starts moving again after that. A couple of guys nod at me.
One of them mutters, “Good to see you, man.”
Another says something about the team needing us back. It’s normal. It’s supposed to feel normal.
It doesn’t.
I move through the motions anyway, grabbing my gear, sitting down, pulling everything on piece by piece like my body remembers how to do this even if my head feels like it’s somewhere else entirely.
It’s automatic.
All of it.
Tape. Pads. Jersey.
My hands move without thinking.
But the entire time, there’s something under it.
A constant pull.
A quiet, persistent thread in my chest that keeps dragging me back to her.
Is she awake?
Is she resting?
Did she eat?
Is she in pain?
Did she...
I cut the thought off before it can finish. Because that’s where it goes. That’s where it always goes now.
Back to the worst possible version of things. Back to what it felt like to hold her and feel her slipping. Back to the moment everything stopped.
“Jackson.”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at nothing.
“Yeah?”
Coach is standing near the doorway, watching me.
“You good?”
No.
“Yeah,” I say anyway.
He studies me for a second longer than necessary, like he doesn’t believe me, like he knows something’s off but doesn’t have enough to push it.
