2. Bouncing Back
Chapter Two
BOUNCING BACK
~~Camden~~
I’ve been rejected once again.
I leave the coach’s office with my head hung low. When I enter the locker room, I catch the sympathetic gazes of my teammates.
I’ve played on six teams in under three seasons. My next team will be lucky number seven. That is if there’s a number seven. It’s possible no one will pick me up, and I’ll be without a team. The thought depresses me. I don’t know what I’d do without hockey in my life. I have no other skills. No other passions. Nothing. I don’t have a family to speak of, no kids of my own, not even a girlfriend. It’s hard to establish relationships when you’re moving to a new city every couple of months.
Arnie, my linemate, sits down next to me. His pity is almost more than I can take.
“You okay?” he asks.
No, I’m not okay. I’m having a personal crisis. My career is in its death throes, and I’m running out of hope that resuscitation is possible .
I don’t convey those thoughts to him. He’s got enough on his plate as a struggling fourth-liner. We both know our futures are hanging on by a thread. This could’ve happened to him instead of me, and he knows it. So do I. Unfortunately, I drew the short straw this time.
“They put me on waivers.” I’m stating the obvious. Based on the way most of my teammates are avoiding eye contact, the word has already spread.
“I’m sorry, buddy. I hate to see you go, but perhaps there’s a silver lining. You might get picked up by a team that better utilizes your talents.”
Our current team is in a state of chaos and dysfunction. I’m not sad to leave, but I am sad to once again be thrown away once my usefulness is outlived. I’d seen the writing scrawled on the wall when I heard our fourth line winger was coming off injured reserve. I knew either Arnie or I would be sacrificed to make room on the roster.
I force a smile, but I’m certain it’s not reaching my eyes. “Yeah, this team does have its problems.”
Arnie slaps me on the back before rising from his seat to walk across the room. A few other guys approach me but most stay away, as if my being put on waivers might be contagious. I pick up my duffel and begin shoving my personal items into it. Then without another word, I leave this locker room for the last time.
Once back in my sparse apartment, I slump onto the couch and glance around. It’s telling that I haven’t unpacked in the last couple moves. I knew I wouldn’t be here long. Boxes are stacked against one wall. I don’t have much anyway. When you change cities as often as I do, you learn to travel light.
I stare at nothing, unseeing, as my brain struggles to process where to go from here. I’m alone with no real friends. My family is gone, and the thought of losing them still pains me.
Five years ago, my older brother and personal idol went to a bar for a couple drinks. He was never seen again. My mom went off the deep end, and my dad retreated into himself. Dad died two years later of a heart attack no one saw coming. Then my mom took her life a year ago. She couldn’t go on without them.
Now I have no one, and I’m suffering from loneliness more than ever. At one time, we’d been a close, loving family, then it all fell apart. My parents couldn’t deal with the loss and never recovered. I’m not sure I have either.
My phone rings, and I glance at the display. It’s my agent. I sigh and consider not answering. At the last minute, I pick up.
“Hey, Celia,” I say. She’s a ballbuster if there ever was one. I’m fortunate to have snagged such a high-caliber agent, but even she can’t make miracles happen.
“I’m working the phones with a few possible teams.” That’s Celia—straight to the point, no messing around with pleasantries.
“What teams?” I ask, feeling hopeful for the first time since I heard the news.
“Can’t say yet.”
Her reply surprises me, and I wonder if there actually are teams who’ve expressed interest.
“Anyway, Camden, I want you to know that I’m on it, and I’ll do everything in my power to find you another place to land.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“We’ll be in touch.” She abruptly ends the call.
Dejected once again, I shuffle to the small kitchen and open the freezer. I pull out a frozen dinner, set the oven temp, and pop it in. To hell with preheating.
I flop onto the couch and turn the television to a hockey game. I watch intently, as if I might be able to absorb the secret sauce to success that’s eluded me. The Icehawks rookie takes a nasty hit and doesn’t get up. Any guy in the league will tell you that we hate to see hits like this, even though he’s not a teammate. The training staff gathers around him and help him to his feet. He skates painfully off the ice and disappears down the tunnel.
I hate to be one to capitalize on another’s misfortune, but that’s the breaks. The Icehawks are the league’s newest team. They’re made up of misfits and rejects from other teams, and perhaps I’ll be their next reclamation project.
A guy can hope, and I’m experienced when it comes to bouncing back from rejection.