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Bradley was in Australia when the call came in.
The MCG had sold out an hour after tickets were opened, with a hundred thousand fans screaming in excitement as the opening musician finished her setlist. The ground vibrated with anticipation, the kind only stadium shows can conjure. Backstage the air was warm from lighting and nerves.
He doesn’t normally answer calls, but Bob had held out the phone and said it was urgent. Never, never, did Bradley expect an admiral to be on the other end, voice steady but weighted as he delivered the kind of call Bradley thought he’d never get.
Mav was gone. An aneurysm. He went to sleep and just didn’t wake up.
Part of Bradley was happy that his godfather went peacefully, that Goose, Ice, and Carole were waiting on the other side. The other part of him? The part that saw Mav as a giant, invincible and untouchable? That part mourns for the man who taught him how to play the piano, how to play baseball, and how to shave. He was the one that had pointed Bradley towards music instead of the Navy–insisting the kid make a name for himself that wasn’t in the shadows of aviation legends.
Bradley doesn’t hear the end of the call, doesn’t feel Bob take the phone. He doesn’t react when Natasha, the opening musician, comes backstage in between sets, her guitar hanging from his shoulders.
The roar in his ears is deafening, like he’s under the ocean during a storm.
When he finally surfaces, when the world stops tilting, he notices everyone staring. They all loved Mav when he was able to join the tour in between deployments; the older man an absolute riot to be around, especially when he was sprouting embarrassing stories about a young Bradley.
“Mav’s dead. Last night in his sleep. He didn’t feel a thing.” The words scrape like gravel.
Silence drops like a curtain. Even the distant crowd noise seems to fade.
Natasha is the first to comfort him, her small frame warm against him. “I’m sorry, Roo. I know how much he meant to you.”
“Maybe we can get one of the other artists to do a few filler songs while you take a minute.” Bob says gently as he kneels beside his friend. “The fans will understand.”
“No, no.” Bradley shakes his head. “I’m fine. I can do the concert and take time to grieve later. I promise.”
“Are you sure?” Ariel, one of the stage managers, asks. “Because I can get Gigi back on—””
“Yeah, I’m sure, thanks, A. I just need some water, and I’ll be good to go.”
He knows it’s a lie. Everyone else knows it too. But Bradley Bradshaw has never missed a show. And tonight—of all nights—he won’t start now.
Two hours later, with his nerves rubbed raw and eyes burning from the intense lighting, Bradley takes a drink of water and sits at the piano. Fans go crazy.
“I know I normally play Jerry at the end, but I got some news tonight that rocked my world.” Badley takes a big breath, swallowing the lump in his throat. “My godfather, Maverick, passed away last night.”
The crowd settles, gasps and whispers filling the air. The energetic atmosphere replaced by a curtain of grief and understanding.
“Mav and I didn’t always get along, especially after my mama passed. But he was the last family I had on this floating rock, and I earned everything I know from him. I’m the man I am today because of him.”
Bradley takes a minute to wipe the tears threatening to fall.
“So tonight’s performance of Jerry will be dedicated to Peter “Maverick” Mitchell, one of the greatest pilots the world will ever see. We’re going to sing loud—loud and strong for the man in the stars.”
A thousand phone lights flick on.
Then ten thousand.
Then the whole arena glows like a constellation.
Bradley looks up and sees it—all those lights, all those trembling hands raised high, every single person becoming a star for Maverick.
He thinks of green eyes and a mischievous grin; he thinks of sandy blonde hair and the same mustache he wears. He thinks of Nick laughing with Mav at some bar piano in ‘89, little Bradley sitting on top slapping the wood with chubby hands.
Lifting his head to look out at a hundred thousand people, he speaks into the mic: “He wouldn’t want sad. He’d kick my ass and tell me it’s not a funeral but a celebration.
“Alright, Melbourne, let’s give the man one hell of a send-off.”
He hits that first bright, chaotic, reckless chord, and the crowd erupts. Bradley leans into the mic with the same swagger Mav taught him at four years old:
“YOU SHAKE MY NERVES AND YOU RATTLE MY BRAIN—!!”
The stadium becomes feral, lights flashing as fans jump.
“GOODNESS, GRACIOUS—!!”
And 100,000 Australians scream:
“GREAT BALLS OF FIRE!”
Bradley grins wide, reckless, alive.
“C’MON MELBOURNE, LOUDER!”
His aviators, the same ones Mav had bought him when he was nominated for his first Grammy, slipped down his nose, his head bobbing like a damn rooster.
Every chord, every drum hit, and every guitar riff made it feel like Mav and Nick were sitting right next to him. He could feel their energy and hear their screams as he slammed his fingers down on the piano.
He screams the chorus with everything in him, sweat and tears and joy all twisted together:
The entire continent seems to scream it with him:
The last chord rings out like a jet.
Bradley holds it. Lets it burn. Lets the sound rattle in his bones.
The lights fade to a deep blue as he whispers into the mic, “That one’s for you, Mav. Keep flying.”
Bradley doesn’t cancel the rest of the tour. He does push back the rest of the Oceania dates so he can fly to the funeral.
Mav is buried next to Tom, Nick, and Carole in the Kazansky family cemetery, his name next to Tom’s on their shared headstone.
✡
Tomaz “Iceman” Kazansky
1959-2022
Admiral US Navy
Beloved son, husband, godfather, friend
If you’re going to do it, do it right.
__________
Peter “Maverick” Kazansky-Mitchell
1962-2025
Captain US Navy
Beloved son, husband, godfather, friend
Don’t think. Just do.
Wingman until dusk
Bradley stood at the podium, not bearing to look at the casket his godfather lay in. He clears his throat once. Twice. His voice is rough, already breaking.
“Um… I wasn’t sure I could do this.” A swallow. A shaky breath. “But Mav would’ve told me to stop thinking and just do it, so… here we are.” A soft ripple of bittersweet laughter moves through the crowd. Bradley manages a small smile. “I’ve known Maverick my whole life. He’s the reason I exist on this planet in anything more than a biological sense. He didn’t just teach me how to fly. He taught me how to live.”
Bradley stares down at his hands. “I grew up believing he was a giant. Unstoppable. Unkillable.” His voice thins. “But giants… they get tired too, I guess.” A tear slips down his cheek, but he keeps going. “When my dad died, Mav didn’t replace him. He never tried to. He just… showed up. Every birthday. Every baseball game. Every bad grade. Every mistake. Every time I needed someone who wouldn’t give up on me, he was there.”
He pauses—long, trembling.
“Even when I didn’t want him there, he never held anything against me. He did that with everyone, even when people didn’t deserve it. He forgave. He believed.”
Bradley gripped the podium hard. “Mav loved my dad, he loved my mama, he loved pops. And now he’s with them again. I like to think they’re flying again. Probably breaking rules and driving god insane.”
A quiet ripple of laughter. I don’t really know how to live in a world without Maverick. He was the last piece of family I had. But… I know what he’d tell me.” He looks up at the sky. “You’ll figure it out, kid. You always do.”
Two days after the funeral, Bradley posts a short video on his Instagram. No filters. No crew. Just him on a balcony, hoodie on, eyes swollen.
“Hey everyone… I just wanted to say thank you for the love and patience. I’m finishing the Oceania leg of Afterburn, but after that, I’m taking some time to mourn my godfather. He was my family. He raised me. And I need some time to remember him right. Thank you for understanding; I promise I’m not going anywhere.”
California is always beautiful. It’s home. Just as much as Philly is.
The first week he spends with Penny and Amelia, walking the private beach that separates his family home from the rest of the world. The silence and ache of absence keep him from fully being part of it.
Two weeks into his self-imposed exile, Bob texts him.
“Got a kid from Texhoma. Rough voice, good bones. Want some company?”
At first, Bradey ignores it. But Mav’s voice tells him that music heals or it kills; don’t let it kill you, kid.
The next day, Jake Seresin arrives with a guitar case covered in bar stickers, a drawl thick enough to melt steel, and green eyes with the same spark Mav had.
Days pass; writing is awkward at first, and they circle around ideas. Bradley plays a chord progression he’s been messing with. Jake hums something under his breath. Bradley’s head snaps up.
“Do that again.”
Jake shrugs as he repeats the words, “But I miss you in the morning when i see the sun… somethin’ in the orange tells me we’re not done…”
Bradley’s breath catches.
They stay up until 3am.
Cups of coffee from his stupidly expensive machine.
Half-finished lyrics scribbled everywhere.
Grief bleeds into melody. Homesickness turns into harmony. Pain becomes poetry.
And by sunrise, they’ve written a song about longing, regret, and the impossible truth that sometimes the world takes people from you before you’re ready.
A week after Jake leaves, Bradley wakes up in the middle of the night after a dream about Mav.
He sits at the piano, hands shaking and his heart tight.
By morning he’s written a ballad about ghosts—about people who leave prints in your life that never wash out; about hearing laughter in empty rooms; about memories that feel like hands on your shoulders; about grief that whispers instead of screams.
Afterburn picks up in Dubai, the most expensive show Bradley’s done so far. Etihad Arena hums like a living thing, having sold out in seven minutes.
Phoenix performs her setlist, the heavy rock music making the air vibrate. When she finishes to the cheers of tens of thousands of people, she jogs offstage.
The lights go out.
Dubai erupts.
A spotlight snaps open, haloing Bradley as he walks to center stage with his guitar, hair messy from running his hands through it, smile shaky but bright.
He steps up to the mic and whispers into it, “I missed you.”
Halfway through the show—after “Blue Skies,” “Compass,” and “Knockout”—the stage dims. Bradley wipes sweat from his forehead as he chugs at his water bottle.
“Alright, Dubai. I’ve got something special for you tonight: two new songs.”
A wildfire of screams rises.
“And one of them is with someone you’re about to meet. He’s from the Texas-Oklahoma line. He’s got a voice like thunder during a tornado, and boy does he know how to use it.”
He glances offstage. Jake nods once.
“Dubai, give it up for… JAKE SERESIN!”
Jake steps out—boots, guitar, dimples, and green eyes stunned at the size of the crowd. The roar shakes the metal rigging above them. Jake laughs in disbelief and waves shyly.
Bradley nudges him with his elbow.
Jake steps to the mic. “Uh… hey,” he says, voice low and twangy. The crowd swoons. “I can’t believe I’m here. Bradley saved my ass, so… hope y’all like what we made.”
Bradley snorts behind him.
Jake tries again.
“We wrote this one together. It’s called… Something In the Orange.”
The arena explodes.
“It’ll be fine by dusk light, I’m telling you, baby
These things eat at your bones and drive your young mind crazy.””
The first notes hit—slow, aching, raw.
Jake’s voice carries the verses—gravelly, mournful, full of dusty dirt highways and heartbreak.
Bradley takes the harmonies—low, steady, cracked at the edges.
“To you, I’m just a man, to me, you’re all that I am
Where the hell am I supposed to go?
I poisoned myself again, somethin’ in the orange tells me you’re never comin’ home.”
Fans sway. Phone flashlights rise like stars.
By the chorus, eighteen thousand people are crying.
Jake glances at Bradley, stunned. Bradley just smiles and mouths they love you.
Natasha, Bob, and Mickey join Jake on the stage steps as Bradley takes a seat at the piano. The lights dim to a deep blue. A soft projection of pictures fills the screen behind them.
Bradley takes a moment, breathing through the quiet. “This next song is for anyone who’s ever lost someone who mattered. For those of us who still carry ghosts.”
He presses the first key. A lonely, trembling note.
“Del gran sueno No me quiero despertar
Y me falla Un mas mi realidad.”
The Spanish drifts out, warm, aching, heavy with grief. The arena falls silent. Truly silent.
Phones stay up, but no one moves.
He sings about shadows that stay, about footsteps that echo long after they’re gone, about laughter he still reaches for, about people who live on in the corners of his heart.
“En esta casa no existen fantasmas
Son puros recuerdos De tiempos ajenos
De buenos momentos.”
Jake and the others sway with the crowd, his fingers strumming his guitar. Nat’s softer voice wraps around the harmonies like silk. Bob wipes his face, Mickey taps softly on the stage with his drumsticks.
Fans cry into their hands, into their friends, into strangers’ shoulders. Some stand still with their eyes closed. But no one looks away.
The lights shift to a warm gold, scattering across the audience like sun through clouds.
For one moment, Bradley swears the air feels heavier—like four people he loved are standing behind him.
When he finishes, the silence hangs for one second—
—and then Dubai erupts into a roar of grief and love so fierce it pushes him back from the piano.
Bradley wipes his face, breath shaking. “Thank you,” he whispers.