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MidReal Story
The Rebound
Scenario:Running wild after a check help dealing with ex lover of his she asks for space he want space for growth
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Creek View
Male, protagonist, a hopeful writer dealing with the aftermath of a messy breakup, known for his resilience and introspection, has struggled with introver personality but seeks personal growth and understanding, tall with unruly dark hair and a penchant for vintage fashion, often finds solace in nature and literature, deeply compassionate yet occasionally aloof, desires to find balance between solitude and connection.
Running wild after a check helps me deal with my emotions over my ex, Brielle.
She left me after a fight, and now she’s back—married and pregnant.
I need ice to cool down these feelings of hate and anger toward her.
I also need to figure out why I’m feeling them so intensely.
I’ve never been a person who lets things get under my skin, but this girl has always had a way of doing just that—getting under my skin and making me wild.
"Hey, man, you okay?"
My best friend and teammate, Miller, asks as he approaches me after the game.
I lift my head from the ice, where I’ve been resting it in a daze, and nod at him.
"Yeah, I’m good."
"You sure? You looked pretty pissed off when you came off the ice just now."
"I’m fine," I repeat, not wanting to talk about it.
He knows better than to push the issue when I say that.
I peel off my sweat-soaked jersey and pads, dropping them into my locker with more force than necessary.
The equipment room starts to empty as other players filter out, leaving me alone with the smell of hockey gear and cleaning solution.
My hands shake slightly as I organize my stuff, taking longer than usual to sort through it.
The sound of running water echoes from the shower area, reminding me why I came here.
I need to wash away this game, these feelings.
But first, I sit on the bench, head in my hands, trying to steady my breathing.
I grip the wooden bench beneath me, focusing on its solid texture as my heart rate slowly normalizes.
The empty locker room's familiar scent of sweat and equipment cleaner grounds me in reality.
My phone buzzes - another message from Miller checking in - but I leave it untouched in my bag.
Standing up feels like moving through molasses, each muscle protesting from the game's intensity and my emotional exhaustion.
I methodically gather my shower supplies, the routine movements helping restore some sense of control.
I collect my shampoo, soap, and towel with mechanical precision, the familiar weight of each item in my hands a comforting anchor.
The locker room's silence is almost deafening as I walk to the shower area, the echo of my footsteps off the tile floor the only sound.
Each step feels like a battle, my muscles screaming in protest from the aggressive game I played tonight.
I pause at the entrance to the showers, my hand hovering over the knob as another wave of anger washes over me.
Brielle's pregnant smile flashes through my mind again, and I grit my teeth against the surge of emotions.
With a force that surprises me, I twist the handle hard.
The pipes groan in protest before hot water bursts out, steam rising around me.
The shower's steam fills the air as I try to lose myself in the hot water's rhythm.
A metallic rattling cuts through the steady stream, making me pause mid-rinse.
The sound comes again, sharper this time, echoing from the old ventilation system above.
Water drips down my face as I strain to listen, the noise growing more distinct - like something scraping against metal.
I step out, wrapping a towel around my waist, and move closer to the vent near the shower stalls.
The grate looks loose, its edges worn with age.
Standing on the wet tiles, I stretch up toward the vent, my muscles complaining after the game.
My fingers find the metal grate, and it feels grimy under my touch as I work it loose from its mounting.
Water from my hair drips down my back while I balance on my toes, carefully maneuvering the heavy grate to avoid dropping it.
The scraping sound continues above, more distinct now without the barrier.
I set the grate against the wall, grab my phone for light, and peer into the dark opening.
I shine my phone's light deeper into the vent shaft, squinting at something that catches the beam.
A metallic glint draws my attention to a thin string swaying slightly in the air current.
At the end of it dangles what looks like an old key, its surface dulled with rust.
The string appears wedged between joints in the ductwork about two feet inside.
I stretch my arm into the opening, fingertips straining to reach it, but the key remains frustratingly out of grasp.
I scan the locker room for something to help reach it, my wet feet leaving prints on the floor.
Behind the equipment manager's desk, I spot a wire coat hanger on a hook.
Grabbing it, I return to the vent and begin bending the wire with my cold fingers, straightening the hook part while keeping the curved neck.
The metal protests as I shape it into a makeshift reaching tool.
Standing on my toes again, towel precariously wrapped around my waist, I carefully thread the modified hanger into the vent.
"Need some help there?" a voice startles me, and I nearly drop the hanger.
I turn to see Jake leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Yeah, unless you have a better idea for getting that key down," I reply, nodding toward the vent.
Jake steps closer, studying my makeshift tool with a critical eye.
I lower my arm, muscles burning from holding the bent hanger up for so long.
Without a word, Jake walks behind the desk and grabs another wire hanger.
He begins to manipulate it with movements that suggest he's done this before.
His fingers work quickly, straightening the wire before bending one end into a small hook.
He extends his creation toward me, showing how it's nearly twice the length of mine.
When I reach for it, he pulls it back slightly.
"Let someone who knows what they're doing handle this," he says with a smirk.
Leaning against the cold tile wall, I watch as Jake positions himself under the vent.
He holds his modified hanger confidently in one hand.
My makeshift tool dangles uselessly in my other hand.
Water from my shower still drips onto the floor between us.
The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his focused expression while he stretches up, his wire hook disappearing into the vent opening.
My towel slips slightly, and I readjust it, feeling increasingly awkward standing half-naked in the steamy locker room.
Jake's wire scrapes against the metal duct as he maneuvers it through the narrow space, searching for the key.
"Got it," Jake announces triumphantly, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space.
I watch as he carefully retracts the hanger, the key dangling from the end, gleaming dully in the fluorescent light.
"Now, are you ready to find out what this unlocks?" he asks, his eyes meeting mine with a mix of excitement and curiosity.
Jake hands me the rusty key, its surface rough against my palm.
He steps back, his wire hanger tapping against his leg as he waits impatiently for me to dress.
I quickly pull on my clothes, my damp hair dripping onto my t-shirt.
After stuffing my shower supplies into my bag, I follow Jake through the dim hallway.
The corridor stretches out before us, lined with rows of lockers and equipment storage.
Jake's footsteps echo off the concrete floor as we walk side by side, the key growing warm in my clenched fist.
At the end of the corridor, we stop in front of an old metal door I've passed countless times but never noticed before.
The door's surface is weathered, with patches of rust and faded paint.
A small keyhole sits at the center, its metal rim tarnished from years of disuse.
I examine the key in my hand, feeling its weight and studying the rusted edges.
Jake hovers behind me, his presence both reassuring and unnerving.
The fluorescent lights overhead flicker slightly, casting an eerie glow over the scene.
I raise my hand, aligning the key with the lock.
My fingers tremble slightly from the exhaustion of the game and the anticipation building inside me.
As I insert the key, the metal scrapes against metal, particles of rust falling onto my fingers.
Jake leans closer, his breath warm against my shoulder as I grip the key firmly.
My heart pounds in my chest as I begin to turn it.
At first, there's resistance, as if the mechanism hasn't been used in years.
"Are you sure about this?" Jake whispers, his voice barely audible over the creaking metal.
I nod, feeling the weight of his question settle in my gut.
"Then let's see what's been hidden all this time," he says, a hint of determination sharpening his tone.
I grip the key tighter and force it to turn with a final push.
The resistance gives way, and I hear the satisfying click of the lock disengaging.
The door creaks open on stiff hinges, releasing a wave of stale air that makes me cough.
Jake reaches past me to find a light switch, and ancient fluorescent bulbs flicker reluctantly to life.
Through settling dust motes, I make out rows of shelves lining the walls.
Tarnished trophies catch the uneven light, their brass nameplates obscured by years of grime.
My eyes fix on a particularly large cup near the entrance, its familiar shape triggering something in my memory.
"That's the championship trophy from 1985," Jake says, his voice tinged with awe.
I glance at him, surprised by the recognition in his eyes.
"My dad used to talk about that game all the time," he continues, stepping forward to brush dust off the engraved names.
I move beside him, my heart pounding in my chest as I scan the list of names etched into the metal.
The surface feels cold under my fingertips as I trace each line, remembering Dad's stories about his hockey days.
Jake continues talking about his father's memories, but his voice fades into background noise when my eyes lock onto a familiar name.
My finger stops at "Thomas View" - my father's name.
I grip the edge of the shelf to steady myself, leaning closer to make sure I'm reading it right.
"Your dad was on the team?" Jake asks, his voice a mix of disbelief and excitement.
I nod slowly, my mind racing as I try to process this unexpected connection.
"Then maybe there's more to this place than just forgotten trophies," Jake suggests, his eyes gleaming with newfound curiosity.
I step deeper into the room, my eyes scanning the shelves until I find a stack of old photo albums on a lower shelf.
Jake follows, his phone light joining mine to cut through decades of dust.
My hands tremble as I pull out a worn leather album.
The pages crackle as I open it, revealing team photos from the 80s.
I freeze when I spot two familiar faces - our fathers, young and grinning in their jerseys, arms thrown around each other's shoulders.
Jake leans in closer, his shoulder pressing against mine as we study the photograph.
I lean closer, my finger tracing the outline of Dad's young face.
Jake shifts beside me, his phone light angling to catch more details - their matching jerseys, the wide grins, arms locked around each other's shoulders like best friends.
The musty air fills my lungs as I carefully remove the photo from its plastic sleeve.
Something falls from behind it, drifting lazily to the floor.
A folded piece of paper, yellowed with age.
Jake reaches down to grab it, but I catch his wrist.
"Wait," I say, my voice echoing in the small room.
"Let me."
I unfold the paper, revealing a handwritten letter that begins with, "To my son, when you find this..."
With trembling fingers, I hold the letter while Jake's warmth radiates beside me in the dim trophy room.
The paper feels delicate, like it might crumble in my sweaty grip.
I clear my throat, trying to steady my voice as I begin reading the first line.
The words catch in my throat, making me pause.
Jake shifts his phone light to better illuminate the aged paper, his presence oddly comforting as I face this message from my father.
When I finally manage to speak the words, they echo against the trophy-lined walls.
My voice cracks on "friendship."
I steady my breathing and focus on Dad's handwriting, each word becoming clearer under Jake's phone light.
"To my son, when you find this, I hope you're not too upset that I never told you about the late-night meetings at the local diner. It was our secret spot, where Sarah and I would meet to talk about everything and nothing."
I pause, my voice trembling.
"Sarah?"
Jake furrows his brow.
"Who's that?"
I shake my head.
"I don't know. But it sounds like they were close."
I continue reading, my voice steadier now.
"We'd share our latest writing projects and talk about literature until the early hours of the morning. It was our escape from reality."
I look up at Jake, my eyes wide.
"I had no idea Dad was into writing."
Jake shrugs.
"Me neither."
I return to the letter, my voice filled with a mix of sadness and curiosity.
"We'd exchange poetry and stories, critiquing each other's work. It was our own little world, hidden from everyone else."
As I read on, my hands start shaking so badly that Jake has to hold the light steady while I grip the paper tighter.
I lean against the dusty shelf, steadying myself as I turn to the second page.
Jake shifts his phone light to follow my trembling hands across the paper.
"It was during those late nights that Sarah encouraged me to chase my dream of writing a novel. She believed in me more than anyone else ever has. And with her help, we started outlining chapters and character arcs."
My throat tightens as I read the next part.
"She gave me a leather-bound journal for my birthday, urging me to fill it with stories that would change the world."
Jake points behind me, his voice filled with excitement.
"Is that it?"
I follow his gaze to a dark shape behind some trophies - an old notebook, worn and weathered.
I stretch toward it, my muscles still sore from the hockey game.
Jake steadies me with one hand while keeping his phone light aimed at the shelf.
Dust coats my fingers as I work the book free, causing me to sneeze.
The journal's cover feels soft and weathered, like Dad's old armchair.
When I pull it out completely, something metallic clinks against the shelf.
Jake points to a small key attached to the spine by a frayed ribbon.
"Do you think this key opens something important?" Jake asks, his voice tinged with curiosity.
I nod slowly, turning the journal over in my hands.
"Maybe it unlocks the reason Dad kept all of this a secret."
I carry Dad's journal and the small key back to the equipment manager's office, Jake following close behind.
The familiar desk sits in the corner, its wooden surface scarred from years of use.
My hands tremble as I crouch down to examine the bottom drawer - the one that's always been locked.
The key feels warm against my palm as I line it up with the keyhole.
Jake's phone light illuminates the drawer while I work the key into the rusty lock.
With a soft click, the lock gives way, and I pull the drawer open.
Jake leans in closer, his eyes wide with anticipation.
"What do you think we'll find in there?"
I take a deep breath, glancing at him.
"Answers, I hope. Maybe even the truth about who Sarah really was."
Jake nods, his voice barely above a whisper.
"And why Dad kept her such a secret from us."
I kneel beside the open drawer, my knees pressing against the cold floor.
Jake crouches next to me, his shoulder brushing mine.
The musty smell of aged paper fills my nose when I reach inside.
My fingers brush against something bound together, and I carefully pull out a thick bundle of letters.
The yellowed envelopes are addressed in different handwriting - some in my father's familiar scrawl, others in an elegant script I don't recognize.
Jake leans closer, his breath warm on my shoulder as I hold the bundle.
I carefully lift the stack of letters from the drawer, revealing a yellowed document beneath.
Jake's phone light catches the official seal as I pull it free.
My hands shake while unfolding the brittle paper - it's a property deed.
The formal text details ownership of a small island in Lake Superior, jointly held by my father and Jake's.
Jake leans closer, his finger tracing the coordinates listed on the deed.
"Why would our dads own an island together?" Jake asks, his voice a mix of confusion and intrigue.
I shake my head, trying to piece it all together.
"Maybe it's where they hid everything they didn't want us to know."
I spread the letters across the equipment room floor, sorting them by date.
Jake watches in silence, his eyes following my movements as I organize the letters.
The envelopes are old, some with stamps bearing dates from the 1970s and 80s.
As I sort through them, a folded piece of paper slips out from between two letters dated 1986.
Before it can slide under the desk, Jake catches it and hands it to me.
I unfold it, my heart racing as I recognize the weathered map of the island's coastline.
Detailed sketches of rocks and coves line the edges, with small notes indicating water depths and currents.
In the corner, a set of coordinates are scribbled in my father's familiar handwriting - the same ones listed on the property deed.
A small red X marks a small cove on the eastern shore, accompanied by a cryptic note scrawled in haste: "Sarah's legacy."