I need a drink. But not the kind anyone would expect me to go for.
I toss my keys onto my kitchen counter and bypass the beer that’s been sitting in my fridge for months only to turn on my electric kettle instead. I started drinking a lot of chamomile tea after surgery to help me sleep, and somehow, I’ve become addicted. Throw some honey in that shit and feel the warmth as it heats you from the inside out. It’s good on a lonely night or when I feel the weight of the world pressing in on me.
After the water boils, I submerge the tea bag to let it steep, and while I wait, I look around my big empty house. It’s enormous. Somehow growing in vastness by the day. I bought it a few years ago so I could throw big parties and have more than enough room. And yeah, it was perfect for that. But when it’s empty, it’s really freaking empty. The thing is, I don’t miss the parties at all. This silence, however, is starting to wear on me.
Pulling out my phone, I dial my mom, which is how I know I’m really in a low spot.
“Derek! This is a pleasant surprise. Everything okay?” Her soft voice is colored with concern. In times like this, I have to block out memories of our loud fights in the kitchen when she would tell me how disappointed she was about my grades after looking at my report card. Why can’t you just apply yourself like Ginny? Where was this concern for me back then when I was telling her school wasn’t as easy for me as it was for my sister—and she’d roll her eyes. Maybe that’s why I haven’t told my parents yet about my recent diagnosis. There’s still a wound that hasn’t healed, and I’m not ready for my parents to comment on it in any way.
I hop up on the counter, take a drink of my tea, and lie to my mom. “Yeah. Everything’s good.”
On the way home, I turned on a sports talk radio show and wouldn’t you know it, those two shitheads Glenn and Brenn or Jim and Jam…I don’t care other than they were spouting off once again about how a guy my age might not be able to come back from the injury I sustained. Compound fracture to the ankle is a career death sentence.
It doesn’t help that our team’s medical personnel have been keeping the media informed of my recovery only in the most basic of regards: “We’re optimistic he will have a full recovery and be ready by the time the season starts. We’ll evaluate him further when he returns to the facilities.”
But they’re not exactly saying anything to help put these guys’ faith in me again. They predict I’ll play game one like a rusty old wheel. It’s sad to see greats like Pender fall, but in the end, it’s gotta happen to make room for the new generation like Abbot. I haven’t even had the chance to play yet and they’ve already got me with one foot out the damn door. My door. The Sharks are my team full of my brothers and they are trying to hand my position over to Abbot on a silver platter.
It’s not Abbot’s fault, though. He’s a good guy and a great athlete.
The problem is, I used to let negative talk fuel my fire. Right out of surgery, I did everything I could to rehab correctly and efficiently. I thought my fans were on my side, and that helped. But over the months since then, I’ve seen how quickly an entire fan base can turn and grow hearts in their eyes for another player.
Abbot isn’t out to get me or anything, but he sure isn’t hiding away either. On his social media, the kid’s been posting daily workout videos showing how he’s staying in shape in the offseason and doing live sessions so his fans can train with him. Lots of other shit like that too.
I always knew my days on the field were numbered, but now it’s getting real. I imagined that I’d be married with maybe a kid or two when retirement came for me. I’d be ready for the next chapter. Right now—I’m not even close to ready. I’m terrified.
“You sure you’re okay? You sound off,” my mom says, pulling me out of my miserable thoughts.
I clear my throat and smile like she can see it through the line. “Yep. All good. Just wanted to see what’s up with you and Dad.” And to hear my mom’s voice because there’s lots of books out there to help you cope with over-the-top toxic parents, but few that help you navigate a complicated relationship with parents you very much love but still carry some childhood hurt from.
“Nothing much going on here!” my dad chimes in. Apparently, they’re old enough now to have entered the stealth speakerphone era. “We had lunch with your sister yesterday. She’s thriving at the new hospital.”
“I’d expect nothing less from Ginny.” My sister really is great. I don’t have anything against her—and we stay in contact for the most part. I just hate that her name is often a reminder of my shortcomings. Lately, I’ve been wondering if I get cut from the team, if my parents will look at me again like they used to. Disappointment. Frustration. Or have I finally proved myself enough to them that we’ll continue on like normal.
This call is doing the opposite of what I hoped it would do. So we talk for a few more minutes about nothing in particular and I hang up and set my phone down.
The house is so silent that the click of my phone case against the marble counter echoes like a penny dropped down a well. I already worked out today—but I’m considering going out to my home gym and doing some extra rehab exercises. Mainly because there’s nothing to do and I don’t feel like seeing friends. But instead of going right to the gym, I lie back on the counter and stare up at the ceiling and let my thoughts travel to the one place I shouldn’t.
Nora Mackenzie.
I smile, realizing I know the perfect way to fill my time and the silence.
