DENIAL JOSH – PRESENT DAY
It’s been a year. One whole year since I left the city where everything fell apart. Since I packed up Asha, said my goodbyes, and tried to piece together a life that didn’t revolve around waiting for a miracle.
Now, I’m here, running out onto the field under the bright Texas sun, the roar of the Dallas fans echoing through the stadium. This is my life now–football, Asha, and the focus it takes to keep everything else at bay.
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Across the field, I catch a glimpse of Luke as his team takes their positions. Defense. Of course.
We haven’t spoken much. The last time was after the playoffs a few months back when his calls finally stopped coming. Jess still calls, though. Checks in on me and Asha like clockwork. I think she knows I need the tether even if I’ll never admit it. But she also knows better than to bring up Laura. That’s the unspoken rule. Never mention her.
The monthly updates still come. They’ve been piling up in my inbox for months, each subject line the same clinical phrasing. “Patient Update – Laura H.” The last few emails remain unopened, sitting like lead weights in my mailbox. I can’t take another one telling me there’s been no change. Or worse–less brain activity, more decline. “Have hope,” they say. “Miracles happen.”
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I’ve stopped reading them because I’ve made my peace, Laura Isn’t coming back, For me, she left a long time ago.
They think I’m in denial–Jess, Luke, even the doctors. But I’m not. I’ve accepted it.
Accepted this life. I can’t sit by and watch her waste away, month after month, becoming less and less of the vibrant woman I fell in love with. It’s not my job to convince anyone else of that, not even Luke.
He doesn’t understand why I left. Why I couldn’t keep waiting, keep hoping for something that I know deep down isn’t going to happen. But it’s not his wife in that bed. It’s mine. It’s my life that broke apart when the accident happened. And I had to make a choice–for Asha, for myself.
So here I am, running onto the field, ready to face Luke and his team. Ready to show up in the only way I know how now.
The whistle blows, and the game is a blur of motion and impact. Muscle slamming into muscle. The crowd’s cheers mix with the adrenaline pounding in my ears. My body knows this rhythm, this grind. It’s where I can lose myself, where I can forget for a while.
Every so often, I catch a glimpse of Luke out of the corner of my eye. He’s playing like a man possessed, his hits harder than they need to be, his focus razor sharp. I know what he’s doing–trying to prove a point, trying to get under my skin.
It doesn’t work.
We win. Barely. But a win is a win.
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14:33
DENIAL
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The final whistle blows, and the field becomes chaos- teammates shouting, fans screaming, reporters pushing in from the sidelines. I make a beeline for the locker room, weaving through the crowd before Luke can find me. I know he’ll try. He’ll want to talk, to intervene, to stage another “what are you doing with your life” speech.
I don’t fucking need one.
In the locker room, I strip off my pads and jersey, letting the cold metal of the bench seep into my skin as I sit down. My phone buzzes on the bench beside me. glance at the screen–Jess’s
name.
I let it go to voicemail.
I know what she wants. She’ll ask how I’m doing, how Asha is. Did I see Luke… What was I supposed to tell my sister. l’happy she got her dream life while I didn’t? I know they had their fair share of shit from the start and if I ave o adit that they are stronger and I’m taking the cowards way out then I will… because I fucking am. I now I am. She’ll tell me Luke was upset, that he wants to talk. Maybe she’ll ask if I’ve opened the latest email from Laura’s doctors.
I haven’t.
And I won’t.
Not today.
After my shower, I head to the parking lot where Asha’s babysitter is waiting. As soon as she sees me, her little face lights up, and she starts wiggling in the sitter’s arms, reaching for me.
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“Dadd!” she squeals, and everything else fades away,
I take her into my arms, pressing a kiss to her curly head. “Hey, princess. Did you have fun today?”
She babbles something about colors and blocks, her tiny hands patting my cheeks as if she’s trying to make sure I’m real.
This is what matters. Not the emails. Not the whispers of miracles. Not the weight of Luke’s judgment.
Asha matters…
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