Chapter 12 Camden
CAMDEN
After Valerie surprised me by showing up at my apartment, we spent the night in stilted conversation.
Aside from the fact that she never asked about Paisley or tried to spend time with her, I felt ambivalent about Val.
I couldn’t even scrounge up enough energy to argue when she said she didn’t like that I “changed so much all of a sudden,” including but not limited to bringing “rodents” into my home.
Which had me getting defensive about Rocky and Balboa.
Then she asked how much longer Nadine was going to work for me, and when I informed her that I asked her to stay full time, Valerie went completely quiet, dropped to her knees and offered to suck my dick.
I’m not sure if it was because I’d been so physically wrung out or the sudden aversion to my girlfriend, but my dick wasn’t having it. And she promptly huffed, ordered me to “get my shit together,” and to make sure I kept my bye week open for her.
We haven’t really spoken since.
But I have seen Nadine every day, both of us dancing around the topic of her job. She needs time to think, and I need not to get my hopes up. Especially when I have so much of my own stress to deal with.
Malcolm catches my eye in the back of the media room, offers a subtle nod, a silent direction to stay on the script and keep my temper.
I plop into the chair in front of the microphone with the maroon backdrop behind me, the team’s logo and sponsor on it.
After a sip of water, I settle my elbows on the table and wait for the first question.
It’s an easy one.
“First of all, happy birthday. How does it feel to be thirty, and do you have anything special planned?”
I smile, knowing there are multiple cameras on me, and accept the inquiry with a thanks. “Feels the same as twenty-nine. I don’t have any special plans beyond a team meeting later.” And some cannoli from my favorite Italian bakery on 8th Street. “I’m focused on the game against Washington.”
The reporters were already informed I would not be answering any questions about my family, but the second question alludes to them. “How does it feel to be back? After everything you’ve been through, how are you doing?”
Rubbing my thumb over the ridge of my plastic water bottle, I manage to lift my gaze out to the sea of faces staring at me. “It’s good to be back. It’s good to be on the field. I’m doing well.”
“Where’s your head at?” someone asks from the corner. “After the catastrophe of last season, what’s the locker room like? Any problems? How’s your relationship with the team?”
I scoot the water bottle between my hands, giving me something to squeeze.
“I’m focused on winning this season. The past is the past, and this is a new season.
So I’m concentrating on my future, on the team’s future.
As for the locker room, there are no problems.” That isn’t completely true; there’s still some lingering tension, but I’m not about to tell these fuckers that.
“We all have one goal in mind—to win the championship.”
Another reporter. “How do you feel physically? I’m assuming your off-season wasn’t as productive as you would have liked it to be, so do you feel like you’ve lost your edge?”
I stare down at the bottle top. “I’ve been working with the position coaches, working hard in the weight room, with the agility trainer to make sure I’m quicker off the line, so, no, I don’t feel like I lost my edge.
If anything, I have more to prove.” I shrug and meet the reporter’s gaze, making sure they know I’m still Camden Long.
“I’m still the top tight end in the league. ”
A few murmurs ring out before another question from the back. “Your reputation in Philadelphia has tanked. What do you have to say to the fans?”
“They want a win, and we’re going to do that for them. I owe them that, and I’m going to do everything in my power to bring the trophy to Philly.”
Someone in the front row. “Yesterday, Lionel Barry from ESPN said about you, quote, ‘I feel for the guy, losing his parents and all, but he has proven to be a clown. He cares more about showing off than showing out for his team. The Founders flushed nineteen million down the toilet with him.’ What is your response?”
I pinch my eyes shut for a moment, hearing Malcolm on my shoulder, reminding me to keep my head, but Lionel fucking Barry is a washed-up has-been, known for talking a lot of shit because he wishes he could still play.
“My parents have nothing to do with any of this, and I’d politely ask Mr. Barry to avoid mentioning them any further.
If he wants to come after me, fine, but don’t use their deaths as an excuse to try to take me down. ”
“What about addressing his saying you care more about showing off than showing out for your team?”
I flick my gaze to Malcolm, who pleads with wide eyes for me to stay on track, but I can’t help it.
My mouth is moving before I’ve fully formed the answer.
“If I didn’t care about my team, I wouldn’t have returned.
I would challenge Lionel fucking Barry or anyone else to do what I had to do, to bury both of my parents and endure the chatter in the media and online about what a shitty person I am and how I deserved it.
” I dig my finger into the table. “You think I want to come back to a city that hates me after saying goodbye to what feels like the only two people who loved me? You think it’s easy to sit here with all of you looking at me, knowing you want the nitty-gritty details of the worst moments of my life?
Yes, I fucked up. Yes, I am taking responsibility, but there is no greater challenge than coming back here and fighting for my team.
I am rising to it, so you can take whatever sound bite you want back to prove to the world I am every bit the asshole you think I am, but I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.
Even when most anyone else would have quit, I haven’t. I’m still here.”
With that, I stand and exit the stage, marching right out the doors with the patter of feet behind me, probably Malcolm or any one of the team’s media people, pissed about what I said and leaving early, but fuck that.
“Hey.” Erik intercepts me in the hall, probably having been watching it on one of the televisions mounted there. He gestures to whoever is behind me, clearly ordering them to leave me alone then directs me away from the fray. “That was great. Good for you.”
“You think it was great?”
“Yeah. You needed to get it off your chest.”
I nod and step away from his grasp to turn down another hall, feeling much lighter now than I did when I walked into that room. He follows, keeping step with me. “Where are you going?”
Since this isn’t the way to the locker room, the team meeting room, or the cafeteria. “To see Pearce.”
Erik pats my back twice in solidarity. I suppose it is time to see the therapist. I made a promise with Nadine.
I won’t break it, especially after that presser.
I’m sure every single reporter, paper, sports program, and idiot on social media will have a field day with it, but no one has any idea what it’s like to be in my shoes.
They have no idea what it feels like to be dragged to hell and back and still sit in front of a firing squad after to answer questions as if they haven’t already killed me.
“What’s the name of the school your sister taught at?” I ask, and I can feel my best friend’s attention on the side of my face, but I keep my focus in front of me.
“East Central. Why?”
“I want to buy everything on the teachers’ supply lists there, but I don’t want her to know it’s me.” I pause, finally meeting Erik’s surprised stare. “Or maybe I should do the whole district. How much ya think that’ll cost?” I wave it off, reaching for my cell phone. “I’m doing it.”
I take off again, but Erik keeps up. “I’m proud of you, man.
” When I try to swat his words away, he stops me with his hand on my forearm.
“I’m serious. What you told the reporters?
How almost everyone else would have given up?
It’s true. You’re still here fighting, and I’m proud of you. ” He hugs me. “Be proud of yourself.”
I’m trying. I am, but it’s hard to do when it feels like everyone is rooting for me to fail or, at the very least, “get what I deserve,” which is to say, utter humiliation. They want me humbled.
I have been. More than they could ever imagine, but they’ll never see me on my knees.
I will never show them how much pain it causes me to know the last conversation I ever had with my parents was about how I had disappointed them.
They will never have to face an inconsolable fourteen-year-old girl and tell her it’ll be all right, when nothing is all right.
Knowing I’ve experienced the worst thing that could ever happen to me and come out on the other side, I feel invincible. They want me humbled, okay. They want to see me battered and bruised, I am. But I cannot be broken.
I will not be broken.
The list of people who I allow in, who I’m happy to lay down my shields for, is very small.
“You’re doing it for your sister,” Erik reminds me, releasing me from his embrace. “For your parents.”
And a woman I shouldn’t be thinking about while her brother stands in front of me, comforting me. A woman who gave me a birthday card this morning that read Happy birthday! You’re still an asshole.
“Hey.” I hold out my fist for a bump from Erik. “I’m gonna take it from here. Thanks, though.”
He slaps my shoulder and pivots around as I continue down the hall, finding my text thread with Nadine to type out a new message.
On my way to see the counselor.
Look at you! Next, you’ll be using manners and everything. Like a real human boy.
Have you made your appointment yet?
I did. This afternoon actually. After I talked to my parents.
Is that supposed to be a scary cliffhanger?
That’s when you ask me
“What did you talk to your parents about, Nadine?”
What did you talk to your parents about, Nadine?
Told them I was resigning.
Despite being happy she’s staying, I know she was worried about what her parents would think.
Yesterday, Nadine told me she decided she wouldn’t be returning to school after having a long discussion with one of her coworkers, who told her burnout is real, and she’d rather see Nadine leave and be healthy than stay at the school and be miserable, because not only would she hurt herself, but she’d hurt her students too.
“Burnout leads to bad teaching” is what Nadine said resolutely, and I hugged her after, lifting her up off the floor.
Completely forgetting that I shouldn’t be touching her like that when I have a girlfriend, but I am just so relieved.
Nadine is staying with me—I mean, my sister.
I text Nadine back.
How did it go?
Not terrible but not great either. They think I’m having some sort of mental breakdown. They suggested I move back in with them.
They also don’t fully trust you.
They can take a number to join the club.
Like in the media room, my fingers are typing before I’ve fully fleshed out my thoughts.
I only care that you trust me.
Do you trust me?
I want to.
Hope you weren’t lying about tripling my salary.
I couldn’t contain the shit-eating grin on my face if I tried as I email my accountant to make a wire transfer.
Hours later, after I talk a bit with Pearce and arrange weekly meetings with him and speak with Coach Roberts, who tells me not to lose my cool with the press again but that Lionel Barry is a “fucking weasel,” I pull my cell phone back out to find a litany of texts from Nadine.
This isn’t a joke, is it? You sending me this money.
$200,000 is more than triple my salary.
But I’m not giving it back. You better not be expecting this back.
I’ve never had this much money in my life.
This many zeros!
Do you know what I can buy with this?
A small house.
Or at least a trailer.
Who knows in this economy!
I think I might take all of it out of my account in single dollar bills and put it on my bed to make a money angel. Swim around in it. Do my best impression of Donald Duck counting money.
You’ve created a monster.
An awfully cute monster.
Who surprises me with a round of birthday mocktails when I arrive home. Nadine, Paisley, and I ignore the shadow of grief lingering just beyond the corners of the room while we eat cannoli, and I realize thirty feels wholly different from twenty-nine.