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When a devastating injury threatens the career of Terence Tiles, the superstar goalie for the Seattle Kraken, the foundation of the life he meticulously built over eight years crumbles. Overwhelmed, he retreats from...
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I sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair, clutching my boarding pass so hard it crumples slightly in my sweaty palm. The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, casting a harsh glare on the white-tiled floor. Every few seconds, I glance at the large digital clock hanging above the check-in counters. Thirty minutes until my flight, but it feels like an eternity.
The airport is a cacophony of noises—babies crying, announcements blaring, the incessant hum of conversation. I pull my black shades further down my nose and adjust the brim of my black baseball cap, trying to disappear into the crowd. But no matter how much I hunch my shoulders or turn my face away, I can't shake the feeling that everyone is staring at me.
The scandal is still fresh, plastered all over social media and the news. Every glance feels like it's cutting through my feeble disguise, recognizing me, judging me. My heart races as I imagine a paparazzo appearing out of nowhere, camera flashing, questions flying. I scan the area anxiously, eyes darting from one person to the next. A man in a suit typing on his laptop, a woman soothing her toddler, a teenager scrolling through her phone. Are any of them here for me? Do they know who I am?
I shift in my seat, the hard plastic digging into my back, and pull out my phone, checking the time again. Twenty-nine minutes. Time moves too slowly. My leg bounces uncontrollably, and I force myself to take deep breaths, but they come out shallow and rapid. The air feels thick, oppressive, laden with the scent of fast food and the metallic tang of jet fuel.
I look around again, more frantically this time. The rows of black chairs, the people milling about, the distant sound of a plane taking off—all of it blurs together. I catch a glimpse of a camera lens and my breath hitches, but it's just a tourist snapping photos of the departures board. I exhale shakily, but the relief is fleeting.
I need to get away, to escape the prying eyes and the whispered judgments. I pull my baseball cap lower, almost covering my eyes, and sink deeper into my chair, wishing I could melt into it and disappear entirely. The minutes crawl by, each one a small agony as I wait for the call to board, for the moment I can leave all of this behind, if only for a little while.
I look up and see the winners of the Stanley Cup on the huge screen. The team jumps and cradles the cup, their faces radiant with joy. The ESPN broadcaster's voice booms, announcing their victory with the kind of excitement that makes the air buzz even louder than the airport’s usual din. Terence looks so good up there, where he belongs, where he should never leave.
I sigh to myself, feeling a sharp sting behind my eyes. I cannot cry, I will not cry. The tears threaten, but I blink them back, determined not to let them fall. It’s not like I love being a sports agent at the end of the day, so it's not really a loss. That’s what I tell myself, but it feels hollow.
I’ve ghosted all my clients. Well, they’re not my clients anymore, not since the scandal. I can almost hear their voices, the anger, the disappointment. I close my eyes for a moment, wishing I could block out the world. But the sounds, the lights, the constant movement all around me are impossible to ignore.
