Chapter Text
Jake woke up with his heart hammering against his ribs, the echo of the nightmare still ringing in his ears missile warnings, radio chatter, his backseater yelling something he couldn’t quite make out before everything went to shit.
He stared at the ceiling, breathing hard, the dim morning light cutting across the room. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then it settled back in the small apartment, the civilian sheets, no flight schedule waiting for him. No cockpit. No wingman. No second chances. He glances over to the clock and sees the red 6:00 glaring back at him. It's too late for him to even think about falling back asleep.
He swung his right leg over the side of the bed, while slowly guiding his bad leg over with it. He pressed his palms into his eyes as the memory pushed in, uninvited but very familiar. He had survived the impossible mission. The one no one thought they’d come back from. The kind of thing they’d write movies about, brief about, maybe even celebrate in some quiet, classified way.
And yet… it wasn’t that mission that broke everything. It was a routine patrol. A checklist flight. The kind you stop thinking about halfway through because you’ve done it a hundred times before. That’s when the ambush came. Fast and precise with absolutely no warning.
His wingman went down first, a call cut off mid-word. Lucky was just gone. Then his plane was next; they barely had any time to hit the ejection button. Beetle, his backseater, his friend, was gone in seconds. Leaving Jake alone in the sky that suddenly felt too big and too quiet, cascading to the ground at a speed far too fast for a working parachute.
He survived. Of course, he did. That was the irony that wouldn’t let him sleep. The Navy moved on. It always did. Jake didn’t. He picked up the framed photo from his nightstand. The three of them in flight suits, grinning as nothing in the world could touch them. Jake let out a slow breath as he set the photo back in its spot.
Survival didn’t feel like winning. The thought sat there, heavy and unresolved. It felt like something he still had to explain. With nothing better to do, Jake got ready for his shift at the cafe and started to head out.
The stimulator clicked faintly under Jake’s skin. A soft, mechanical pulse he’d gotten used to pretending wasn’t there. Some days it helped. Some days, his left leg still felt like it did right after he crashed into the earth.
He adjusted the brace before stepping out from behind the counter; the carbon fiber frame locked along his calf, connecting at the hinge at his knee, hidden mostly by his jeans. It kept his stride steady enough that customers didn’t stare, at least not right away.
“Medium drip, black?” someone called.
Jake nodded. “Yeah, got you.”
The coffee shop smelled like espresso and burnt sugar, a far cry from jet fuel and ocean air. He’d learned the rhythm of the place the way he used to learn checklists with quiet repetition and muscle memory where he could build it. What he couldn’t rebuild, the stimulator tried to fake. What it couldn’t reach… he just worked around.
The bell over the door chimed. Jake didn’t look up right away just finished pouring, snapped on a lid, and slid the cup across the counter to the customer waiting on the end.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
Different voice. Confident. Casual. “Good Morning.”
Jake finally glanced up. The guy looked like he belonged somewhere louder. Clean-cut, athletic, wearing a Dodgers cap pulled low. With a nice mustache that only this guy could pull off. There was an ease to him, the kind Jake remembered from ready rooms and flight decks … the kind that usually came from being very, very good at something.
“What can I get for you?” Jake asked.
“Uh, do you have good smoothies here?”
“Yeah, I’d like to think so.”
“What’s your favorite?”
“I like the mixed berry one,” Jake said after a moment of thinking.
“I’ll have that”
Jake nodded, already moving. “Simple enough.”
As he turned, there was a slight hitch in his step. Not dramatic but just enough that someone paying attention might notice. The guy did. Jake could feel it, that brief pause people had when they clocked something was off but didn’t want to stare. He ignored it. Grabbed a cup. Ice. All the needed fruit. The practiced routine.
“You just move out here?” the guy asked, leaning lightly against the counter.
Jake shrugged. “Something like that.”
“Not a fan of small talk, huh?”
Jake slid the drink over. “Depends.”
“On?”
Jake met his eyes for a second. “If it’s worth it.”
A flicker of a smile crossed the guy’s face like he appreciated that answer more than he should.
“Bradley,” he said, tapping the lid before picking up his drink.
Jake nodded once. “Jake.”
Bradley lingered half a second, like he expected something more. “…Alright then,” he muttered, almost amused, and turned toward the door.
The bell chimed again as he left. Jake watched him go for a moment longer than necessary. But for just a second, something about him felt familiar—like the life Jake used to have brushing too close to the one he was stuck in now.
The stimulator pulsed again. Jake exhaled, turned back to the machine, and picked up the next order.
xxx
Bradley took a long sip of the smoothie as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, the chill cutting through the already warming LA morning.
“…Depends if it’s worth it.” He snorted under his breath.
“Guy works at a coffee shop and talks like he’s grading you,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Still… there’d been something about him. Not exactly rude but not friendly either. Like he didn’t need anything from anyone. Bradley hadn’t run into a lot of people like that lately.
Most people either wanted something or pretended not to. He took another drink, rolling the taste around like he was looking for something in it.
“Huh,” he said quietly. “That’s actually really good.”
He kept walking, the rhythm of the city picking up around him, but his mind stayed stuck in two places at once on the barista who didn’t care who he was… and on the numbers he couldn’t escape. Slump. They kept calling it a slump. Like it was temporary. Like it hadn’t already been weeks. Like his spot at the Doggers number one pitcher was not in jeopardy.
He adjusted his cap, jaw tightening. “I’m fine,” he muttered, like saying it out loud might make it true.
The stadium felt different when things weren’t going your way. It was the same field, the same dirt, and the same skyline, but it had a different weight. Bradley finished the last of his drink as he walked toward the dugout, tossing the empty cup without looking. It bounced once off the rim and dropped in.
“Alright,” he exhaled. “Let’s go.”
Early reps started slow. First few pitches—off. Too high. Too wide. Timing just a fraction off.
“Come on,” he hissed under his breath.
Again. Another pitch. Then another. Then another. Something shifted. It was small at first, the way his arm came through, the feel of the ball leaving his fingers clean instead of fighting him. The next pitch snapped into place. Then again. And again. The catcher’s mitt started popping louder now.
“Okay…” Bradley murmured, stepping back, rolling his shoulder.
He got back on the mound. This time he didn’t overthink it. Fastball—strike. Slider—sharp, clean break. Another fastball—harder, faster, exactly where he wanted it.
“Hell Yeah, Rooster!” someone called from behind the cage.
Bradley didn’t answer. He just went again. And again. The rhythm built—body, breath, release. For the first time in weeks, it felt easy. Effortless. Like the game was finally back to being his again. By the end of the session, even the coaches were watching differently.
One of them leaned to another. “That’s more like it.”
Bradley stepped off, chest rising and falling, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.
“There it is,” he said under his breath. “Knew it was still there.”
During the lunch break, he grabbed his phone from the bench, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. The screen lit up.
1 Missed Call — Maverick
Bradley didn’t open the missed call. He just stood there, phone in his hand, thumb hovering over the screen like it might decide something for him. Maverick. The name sat there longer than it should have, heavier than it had any right to be after all this time.
He could get it over with—rip the bandage off, hear whatever version of the past was being dug up again, whatever questions still didn’t have answers. Whatever part of it Maverick thought still mattered. But then what? What changed?
Bradley swallowed, something sharp sitting just under his ribs. Bradley locked his phone again, firmer this time. Stuffed it into his bag like that would settle it. Like that meant something.
“Yo, Brad! You coming back out?” someone called.
He looked up, blinking slightly as the field came back into focus. One of his teammates waved him over.
“Yeah,” he answered automatically, already pushing to his feet.
His left foot hit the ground a fraction harder than he meant it to. The motion felt off now like the rhythm he’d found earlier had slipped through his hands without him noticing. He grabbed a ball, turning it once, twice in his fingers. A few minutes ago, everything had lined up. Now?
His thoughts were somewhere else entirely. In a quiet coffee shop with a guy who didn’t care who he was. In a missed call, he didn’t want to return. In a version of the past that refused to stay settled no matter how hard he tried to leave it behind him. Bradley set his jaw and stepped back onto the mound.
“Alright,” he muttered under his breath. “Focus.”
He wound up, drove forward, and released. The pitch missed just a little high. Not by much. But enough. He exhaled slowly, staring at the catcher’s glove. The feeling wasn’t gone entirely. Just… harder to reach now.
Like something was in the way. Something he hadn’t dealt with. And the worst part? He knew ignoring the call wasn’t going to make it disappear. It never did. Bradley rolled the ball in his hand again, jaw tightening.
“…Yeah,” he said quietly to no one. “Not worth it.” But it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to him.