A New Life in Modern Family

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Chapter 92 : The Cure for Flashbacks

Jon's Perspective

Football practice.

To some, it was just after-school conditioning. A sweaty, chaotic hour of whistles, shouting, and sprinting across sunbaked turf. But to Jon, it was more than that. It was sacred. A gritty kind of therapy—loud, physical, unforgiving in the best possible way. The sanctuary of sweat, noise, and structured violence.

He stood on the field, helmet tucked under one arm, cleats crunching slightly on the artificial grass. The late afternoon sun burned above him, the smell of cut grass and adrenaline thick in the air. All around him, the team was getting into position, a dozen voices barking out plays and jokes and challenges. It was all familiar—comfortingly chaotic.

And yet, beneath it all, a tension pulled taut in Jon's chest. He was waiting—not for the whistle, not for the play to start—but for it. The thing that had been haunting him since that day.

The flashbacks.

The cursed, unrelenting mental film reel that kept playing the same horrifying scene: Terry and Suki, mid-lip-lock, fused together like a sculpture of cosmic horror. It had hit him hard during physics, ambushed him during poetry, sucker-punched him in biology. It came at random, like a faulty fire alarm—blaring when he least expected it, impossible to ignore.

He half expected it to strike again here—maybe mid-pass, or in the middle of a huddle, while he was calling out a play. The thought of it creeping up in the middle of a game terrified him. A flash of it, he'd drop the ball, literally and emotionally.

But it didn't come.

Not even a flicker.

Instead, his feet moved. His body responded on instinct.

He ran his routes like a machine.

Caught every pass like the ball was drawn to him magnetically.

The quarterback tossed him a perfect spiral. Jon didn't hesitate. Arms out, fingers flexed—he caught it clean. Smooth. Like he'd never seen anything that haunted him. Like his world hadn't tilted this morning in that empty classroom.

They team together like they always had—no stutters in rhythm, no stilted moments, no phantoms of Terry and Suki showing up in his brain. Just pure football.

Even Coach noticed.

"Hale!" his voice rang out over the field, sharp and unmistakably pleased. "You're a damn machine today. Whatever you're doing—keep doing it!"

Jon felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth, his breath coming fast, chest heaving but proud. "Yes, Coach."

When practice finally ended, he was soaked—shirt clinging to his back, legs heavy, skin stinging with new bruises. And yet, more miraculously than anything else: he felt okay. Not just physically, but mentally.

No involuntary twitching.

No spiral into mental chaos.

No inner screaming like some guy in a war movie waking up in a cold sweat.

In the locker room, he stood under the steaming water, letting the stream beat against his shoulders. He closed his eyes, head tilted back. Let the heat soak in. Let everything else drip away.

And somewhere in that moment of silence, it clicked.

It wasn't what he saw that was tormenting him.

It was the fact that he was trying so damn hard to pretend it hadn't happened. Like shoving a hand against a cracked dam—only making it worse, only creating more pressure. He'd been playing mental dodgeball with his own memories, ducking and weaving every time one popped up.

But out there, on the field, he hadn't dodged anything.

He hadn't repressed or denied or filtered.

He'd just been.

He wasn't thinking about Terry or Suki. He wasn't even thinking about himself. He was just… present. In motion. Moving forward.

Jon actually laughed—out loud. A short, startled sound that bounced off the tiled walls around him. Alone in the steam, he laughed at the absurdity of it all.

His brain, he realized, was painfully human.

The more he tried to ignore something, the louder it screamed.

The moment he stopped fighting and focused on literally anything else—boom. Silence.

Denial wasn't just a river in Egypt. It was a freaking flashback generator. And he'd been drowning in it.

Now, clean, drained, and unexpectedly grounded, Jon pulled on his hoodie, slung his football bag over one shoulder, and stepped out into the cooling evening.

The sky was painted gold—the kind of glow that made everything look cinematic. Even the cracked asphalt of the school parking lot shimmered like a movie set.

And then he saw her.

Sam.

Leaning against his car like she belonged in a music video. Hoodie half-zipped, one boot heel propped against the fender. That trademark smirk resting on her lips—the kind that always meant she was plotting something.

"You look suspicious," Jon said as he approached, half-grinning.

"And you," she replied, her tone honey-sweet and razor-sharp, "look mildly traumatized. So we're even."

He raised an eyebrow. "Please don't say you know about the flashbacks."

"Oh, I do," she said, her grin widening. In one smooth motion, she snatched his car keys from his hand like it was a reflex. "Because Terry told me. And let's be real—you're not exactly subtle."

"I am also actively ignoring any advice about it," Jon muttered.

"Yeah, I figured. Since you're so committed to this 'pretend it never happened' strategy." She opened the driver's side door and slid in with theatrical ease. "So I thought I'd help."

Jon circled around, dropped his bag in the backseat, and climbed in. "Help how?"

Sam leaned in. Her voice dropped just enough to make his heartbeat spike. Her lips brushed the edge of his ear, whispering like it was a dare.

"My parents are out. Gone. All night. Not back till tomorrow."

Jon blinked, eyes widening. "Okay… wow. That's… definitely helpful."

She winked. "I'm a giver."

She turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life.

Jon fastened his seatbelt—more out of reflex than safety. His pulse had found a new rhythm, one that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with the girl driving.

As they pulled out of the lot, Sam tossed him a sideways glance, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the stereo.

Jon stared ahead, then let himself smile.

The flashbacks?

Gone.

Repression?

Dead.

And distraction?

Distraction had just taken the wheel.

And damn… she looked really good doing it.