Shoot Your Shot

Chapter Twenty-Four

Twenty-Four

Jaylen

Staring into an empty suitcase is nothing new, but the act of leaving for long road trips has become more burdensome since Lucy came into my life—and bed every night I’m in town. Life in a hotel can be lonely. At least I can count on the guys to drag me out of my room for a nice team dinner. Lucy’s good fortune doesn’t stop at hockey; I’ve yet to lose credit card roulette and have to pay for dinner this season. I carefully lay a few suits into my open Tumi.

“I’m so nervous I think I’m going to crap my pants.” Lucy barges into the bedroom with two cups of hot coffee in hand. She hands me a mug while sipping the other.

“Is coffee really the best choice then?” I say into my mug.

Ignoring me, Lucy does a spin and strikes a pose. “How do I look?”

My eyes go directly to her tight graphic T-shirt, which reads Fuck the Patriarchy. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this shirt on her, but it’s a bold choice given her schedule today. She has an interview at a tattoo shop this morning. I haven’t had to inter-view for a job since selling ICEEs and popcorn at the concession stand in my local rink back when I was fourteen. Still I’m pretty sure you can’t wear a shirt that says fuck across your protruding nipple rings.

“Honestly, you look like you would cuss the shit out of someone for being rude to their barista and then put your cigarette out in their latte. You look really cool.”

“That’s exactly what I was going for.” Lucy takes another sip of her coffee while motioning to my open suitcase. “All packed for the road trip?”

“I think so.” I lean over to take inventory. Suits, ties, shirts, under-wear. “I forgot socks. Want to grab me a couple pairs?” I ask.

Lucy tugs open the top drawer of my dresser. “Dress or regular?”

“A couple of both.” I wait for her to toss them over, but she must not have heard me because she’s still hunched over the open drawer.

She looks so good from behind that I check the clock on my nightstand to make sure we have enough time to fit in a quickie before we both leave. I ditch my coffee and approach her with plans to ditch the rest of my clothes too. Before I can come up behind her with a playful squeeze, she turns around.

That’s when I notice what’s in her hand: a worn memorial card.

The picture of a lanky boy with curly dark copper hair and bright blue eyes on the front. It’s a candid shot of him laughing. He looks so young, yet the photo isn’t that old, is it? Below the photo are the dates May 3, 2000–January 16, 2020. I forgot I had that buried at the bottom of my drawer.

We stare at each other for a few beats, waiting to see who will make the first move. Most people keep their skeletons in the closet; mine are in my sock drawer.

“Who’s Cameron?” Lucy moves in small, slow motions as if not to spook me. She sets her coffee down on my dresser and holds up the card in both hands.

I think about lying to her, making up some excuse about how I didn’t know it was in there, and that he was some distant friend of a friend. Will she still like me once she knows the truth? Will I still like me if I keep lying to everyone? I’ve held this secret in shame for so long that I’m not sure I have the strength to carry it any further.

“Nobody now.” My answer is as bitter as the black coffee she made this morning.

I’m not mad that she found it. I should have gotten my own socks if I didn’t want her to see it. I can’t remember if I knew that it was in there or not, but I’m almost relieved Lucy has it. Finally, someone outside my immediate family knows about Cam.

“Kind of seems like he was somebody,” Lucy says.

I kept Cam a secret mostly out of the shame I felt for abandoning him, but the guilt over missing his funeral was only amplified as my game continued to slip away from me. I collapse on the edge of my bed. I’m tired of hiding, because no matter where I go, it finds me.

“That’s my… He was my… That’s Cam. We were best friends growing up, until our lives went in opposite directions. I was drafted into the NHL, and he got involved with a gang and into hard drugs. I didn’t make much of an effort to stay close. He died of an overdose, and I chose my hockey game over his funeral. My mom mailed me that memorial card because she thought I would want one to remember him. Feels more like a reminder of how shitty I am. Maybe I like to keep it around because of that.”

Once I open my mouth, it all comes pouring out; I didn’t know I had so much to say. No one’s ever asked, but if anyone is going to be real with me, it’s Lucy. She’ll tell me I’m a piece of shit, and I hope she does.

“It made the move,” Lucy says, sitting down next to me on the edge of the bed.

“I can’t bring myself to throw it out. Now you know what’s wrong with me. Feel free to tell all the reporters. I’m sure they’ll love this sappy story. They can even rescind all their substance abuse allegations they wrote about me that year. I can see the headlines now: ‘Jaylen Jones, not a shitty player because of drugs, but a shitty player because he’s a shitty person.’” I try to laugh it off. Sometimes it’s easier to laugh than it is to cry.

Lucy isn’t laughing. Instead, she grabs my hand and holds it tight. “The tattoo initials… CB?” She peeks up at me from under her bangs.

“It’s him.”

She exhales with a quiet whimper. “How long are you going to punish yourself for this?”

“I’m not sure I have a choice.” I stare up at the ceiling, wishing I could fold myself up into my luggage and zip it shut.

There is never any time. I don’t have the time to sort through my feelings over this—just like I didn’t have the time to go to the funeral. I don’t even have the time to have this conversation with Lucy right now because I’m wheels up in an hour.

“Bullshit. You always have a choice. Do something about it,” she says, dropping my hand.

“Like what? Cam is dead. I made my choice then and I need to get over it. I need to keep playing well so I can get a contract extension or a long-term deal,” I say, matching her no-bullshit tone.

I haven’t had another panic attack since I went to see Dr. Patel—at least, not as big and debilitating as that one after the Pride night game. My medication is working. I’ve been among the top five in the league for points all season. I don’t need to change anything, not right now.

“Could this be why you’re struggling with panic attacks?” Lucy says, looking into my eyes with a softer expression.

Dr. Patel has encouraged me to reflect on what triggers could contribute to my anxiety and depression. We’ve established that my job is a major stressor, but he still thinks there’s something else I’m keeping buried inside. This isn’t Cam’s fault—it’s my problem and it feels selfish to make his death about me.

“They’re not nearly as bad as they used to be,” I snap defensively.

Once I get a better look at the obituary in Lucy’s hand, it starts to click together.

I started experiencing the tightness in my chest after Cam died, but I assumed it was part of my grieving process. Then when I couldn’t get back into the flow of my game, I figured I was struggling with the pressure to perform. Somewhere along the way, the shame from not being there for Cam and my guilt for letting everyone down on the ice blurred together.

“You remember that game, the one where I had a panic attack?” I ask. Lucy nods. “It was January sixteenth.” I hunch forward, covering my face with both hands.

She rests her hand on my shoulder. “Did you tell your psychiatrist about this?”

I shake my head. Dr. Patel keeps reminding me to talk to a therapist. It’s uncomfortable. It’s messy. It’s disgraceful. It’s things I never want to be again.

“You should talk to him. If you do, I’ll go with you again. We can face it together.” Lucy rubs my back, but my whole body feels numb.

Depression is a lonely island. The further I pulled away from people, the more stranded I became. Then Lucy came along and helped me get back to civilization, but no matter how far I’ve come, the things that once haunted me on the island eventually followed me here.

I think I can trust her, and maybe I should. I was scared about seeing my psychiatrist for the first time, but now it feels like another part of my training regime. Physical therapy, weight training, stickhandling drills, and psychiatrist appointments. I guess I can squeeze in a therapy visit into the mix. I’ll at least think about it.

“I think you only like going to those appointments with me because you like to steal the magazines from the lobby,” I say, still trying to fight the tingles that fill my nose before I inevitably start to cry.

Lucy laughs into my shoulder and stays there, resting her head against me. We lean into each other with heavy sighs. “You can’t save your friend, you can’t bring him back, you can’t turn back time and show up for him, but you have a lot of money and resources and a huge platform. Say something with it,” she says.

I think about how much fun I had at Maya’s event meeting everyone. I’ve always been one of the first guys to volunteer for any charity initiative. When I was playing poorly it offered me a much-needed escape from the game. The people we helped never cared how many goals I scored in a season; they were just grateful for a fun distraction—and so was I.

Still, doing something on my own feels daunting. It’s exposing myself to criticism I’m not sure I can handle. It’s not like I have everything figured out. I’ve barely got a grasp on my game, like I’m waiting for Lucy’s luck to run out and I go back to being the league’s biggest letdown.

“But what do I have to say?”

“You said a whole lot to me right now. You have to start being honest.”

“With the media?” I grind my teeth, nauseated by the thought of the headlines. I can’t give them fuel, not when I’m a free agent soon. I’ll never sign a long-term deal if teams know about my deepest character flaw.

“With yourself,” she says.

My eyes well up as I tip my head back, trying to stop my tears from spilling over. I close them tightly and several tears escape down my cheeks. I feel them drip from my jaw. My chest rises and sinks with each labored breath. “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper through a quivering lip. My voice is raspy as I take deep breaths to calm myself. The tears have stopped, but Lucy still takes me into her arms. I bury my head against her neck.

“Would you ever consider starting a nonprofit?”

I pull away, drying my face with the inside collar of my shirt. “You think I could do that?”

“Absolutely. I know Maya would link up to bounce ideas around with you. She’s connected to just about everyone in the nonprofit space in Seattle,” Lucy says with an excited hum.

My wheels are turning; I like her idea. “And you think that will help me finally get over it?” I sit taller.

“No.” Lucy shakes her head and I shrink down again, practically folding over. Like letting go of an untied balloon, I deflate. “It’s not about getting over it. It’s about learning to live with the loss and finding ways to honor Cam,” she adds.

“Do I deserve that?”

“You’re a good person. Even if you listen to music loudly in public spaces and don’t hold the elevator for people.” She playfully knocks her elbow into my side, near the tattoo she gave me.

“I love you, Lucy.” The words fall out of my mouth like I’ve been saying them for years, like it’s no big deal. I say it like I’m asking her to pass me the remote or plug my phone into the charger for me. The thought of loving her feels so deeply embedded into my DNA, it’s nostalgic. Like it had been buried in me the whole time and I needed a little reminder as to where I hid it.

Looking into her eyes right now, I remember the love I’ve always wanted. I long to be the person she sees in me. I love her; I’m sure of it. I don’t expect her to say it back to me, and I don’t need her to either. Her knowing is enough.

Lucy’s eyes go wide as she chokes into a coughing fit. She composes herself. “Thanks” is all she gets out of her mouth before she lunges at me with a passionate kiss.