Page 8

CHAPTER 8

Camden

When you walk into your house after a game, thinking about the woman who has occupied most of your thoughts for months and nearly all of them for days, nothing will obliterate those thoughts faster than finding someone standing in your kitchen in their underwear.

Especially when that person is a sixty-three-year-old man, and his underwear consists of saggy boxers so well-worn the fabric is almost sheer. At least he’s wearing a shirt. A white one— Why do people ever wear white clothing by choice? —with yellowing armpits and a hole by his shoulder from which back hair sprouts in a little tuft.

“Hey, Mike,” I say. “I’m home.”

“Cam!” He turns with a smile and surprise in his eyes. Despite his clothing choice, his face is clean shaven, as always, and his silver hair is neatly combed back. He frowns when he sees what I’m wearing. “Did you have a game tonight?”

Back in the day, Mike would never have missed one of my games. But I didn’t tell him about tonight—or my three other games since he arrived—because he would have insisted on coming. And while I did worry about him here alone during the games, I would have worried more about him in the Summit.

“Nah,” I say, hating the taste of the lie.

We beat the Dingoes three to one tonight, no thanks to me. I’m not a star defenseman, but more of a grinder—a player who won’t get a lot of points or a lot of notice because I’m generally doing all the right things, quietly. Until this season, in which I’ve been noticeable for all the wrong reasons. I wouldn’t be shocked if I’m a healthy scratch and sit out for at least one of our upcoming road games. There are guys who would love my spot, and I’m well aware that I’m not fighting hard enough for it. I just can’t bring myself to care. My head is in too many other places at the moment.

Including Naomi and Liam but also the man standing in his underwear in my house.

“Good. I would have been there if you had a game,” Mike says. “And I would have put something in the oven if I knew you were coming home now.”

“Or maybe you would have put on pants?” I suggest mildly.

Looking down at his bare chicken legs, Mike chuckles. “Maybe. Maybe not. Are you hungry? I was making … something.” He blinks at the counter, and I can see him cataloging the same mess I am and trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. “A sandwich?” he suggests.

There is bread on the counter. And cheese, though it’s shredded, not sliced, and scattered across the counter and floor. He also got out a can of soup, crackers, a head of lettuce and a box of frozen lasagna. I wonder how long it’s been defrosting on the counter. Quickly, I glance at the oven, relieved when I see that it’s not on.

This is the reason I can’t stay away from home long. I have two caregivers: one who’s here with Mike on days when I’m at the rink and another for away games. But it’s not an ideal setup, and already, the caregiver I hired for away games put in her notice. She’ll handle the next road series, but I need to find a replacement after that.

Mike can be by himself, at least for short stretches. For now. Tonight, I got roped into doing some press, possibly as a sort of punishment for my poor performance, and Jordan, the day caregiver, had to leave before I got home.

A few weeks before Naomi and Liam arrived in Harvest Hollow, Mike moved in. We’re still very much in the adjustment period as I try to figure out how and if this will work. It’s been fine, but any time he’s left unattended, it’s with the distinct feeling of dread that I might come home to find him missing or a smoking pile of rubble instead of my rental house.

Mike isn’t my dad, but for years, he’s felt like the closest thing to it. After I got drafted by the Youngstown Phantoms at sixteen, I moved seven hours away from home. Billet families, essentially host families, are common for teens who play for developmental youth leagues. I got lucky with the Bells. Mike and his wife, Debbie, were warm and welcoming and had years of experience hosting guys. At first, they were like a second family, and then, after what happened with my parents, they became more like my only family.

Now, I’m a decade older, a good six inches taller, and fifty pounds heavier than I was back then, but Mike often still sees me as that young kid who lived with them. Somehow, this all works in his head. I think because he needs it to work in his head.

Human beings are excellent at doing what we need to survive and adapt. From what I’ve seen, when Mike’s understanding doesn’t match up with the reality he’s confronted with, he bends the truth to accommodate for it. Which is why it’s possible for him to talk as though this house is his house and he’s still married to Debbie, though they’ve been divorced for years. Most of the time, he thinks I’m in high school even though I no longer look like I did back then. Mike simply jams the ill-fitting pieces together to craft a reality that makes sense.

I used to fear a career-ending injury more than almost anything. Now that I’ve seen memory loss up close and personal, this is a more chilling possibility than a physical injury.

Despite the decline in his cognitive function, Mike’s mood stays upbeat, same as always. His personality hasn’t changed or been dampened. Every so often, when there’s a crack in his carefully constructed narrative and he can’t find a way to reconcile his memory with reality, he wilts. The best option I’ve found seems to be playing along and ignoring inconsistencies rather than pointing them out.

“I ... wanted a midnight snack.” Mike’s eyes land on the oven clock, and he briefly frowns. It’s nine thirty-five. We had a late afternoon game today or it would be closer to a midnight-snack time. “I mean post-dinner snack,” he amends.

“I can make something if you’re hungry. Or order something,” I add.

I’m only good at cooking a few things: eggs, baked chicken, and hamburgers. Not well, either. But passable.

Honestly, cooking anything feels like too much work right now after the game, which is why I picked up something on the way home. A fast food grilled chicken sandwich wasn’t the ideal post-game meal, but it was enough.

“Actually, I’m not hungry,” Mike says, scratching the side of his belly. “I’ll just clean up. Don’t want to leave this mess for Debbie.”

I don’t tell him that Debbie is living in Palm Beach with her new husband. Or that his second wife divorced Mike a few years ago and couldn’t be bothered when she found out he was suffering from an as-yet unspecified form of early-onset dementia.

On the plus side, his leaky memory means he doesn’t usually remember the bad parts of his past. Like the way he wrecked his marriage by having an affair, crushing both his wife and his daughter in the process. This is how he ended up with me.

Though I was shocked and disappointed to hear about Mike’s affair, it was different for me. The betrayal wasn’t personal but a real-life example of realizing your heroes have crumbly clay feet.

“I’ve got this,” I tell him. “You go sit down. Isn’t Toronto playing?”

I can hear the low sounds of the game coming from the living room. I’m sure that’s what he was probably watching before he wandered in here to make the “midnight” snack he no longer wants. Of all the things that he’s unsure about, Mike’s love for the Leafs is unwavering. Which is unfortunate for him since the Toronto Maple Leafs have historically struggled in the playoffs.

“I think this is their year,” he says. “I’ve got that feeling.”

“We can always hope,” I say. With hockey, there’s always hope. It’s one of the things I love about the sport. Any team can win, any given night.

I’ve seen comebacks where a team scores three goals in two minutes to win a game. It’s why fans should never leave a game early.

I wonder what year Mike thinks it is—that could impact his hope in the Leafs. Time is more fluid than linear for Mike now. He slips between thinking it’s one decade and then the next within the same few sentences without even realizing it.

Maybe he’ll be right this year. I’d love that for him.

“Will you come watch with me?” Mike asks. “Or do you have plans with friends?”

“I’ll be right in,” I tell him, loosening my tie. “I need to get out of this suit.”

“I’ll bet,” Mike says with a chuckle as he heads back to the living room.

My stomach twists. With a sigh, I head to my room so I can change before heading back to the kitchen. I actually don’t mind cleaning up the mess, as the rote work allows time for me to come down off the post-game high.

Hockey players have a variety of post-game rituals. Some want to extend the high, heading out to party or find company for the night. Years ago, Mike suggested I lift weights after a game. It sounded ridiculous to me, but my trainers confirmed that it can help release the buildup of lactic acid and aid in recovery. After giving it a try, I found that I was less sore the morning after if I spent even twenty minutes in the gym post-game. By the time I’m through lifting and showering, usually the buzz of energy has quieted.

But considering the things I’ve been grappling with lately, no amount of deadlifts could make a dent. My brain has been spinning out since my conversation with Naomi at the Summit the other day. Honestly, my head hasn’t been in the right place for a long time.

Coming home to this only adds to the mental load. In short, I’m running on fumes, with no gas station in sight.

As I put away food, my thoughts boomerang back to Naomi and Liam.

I’ll admit—having Naomi and Liam move to Harvest Hollow seems like some kind of cosmic sign. It’s my opportunity for a second chance. To right the wrong of leaving in the first place. The brief time I spent alone with Naomi above the ice a few days ago only solidified my desire to put things to rights between us. To confess I want a relationship that is the opposite of casual.

And yet …

I still have the same hesitations and the same fears I did last summer. Liam’s earnest face fills my mind. I can’t stomach the thought of letting him down a second time. I know what that kind of loss feels like, and I already hurt him when I sent him away from my hotel last summer.

I won’t do it again—not to either of them—so I need to be sure before I make any kind of decision.

Sure of what I want. Sure of what I can offer both Naomi and Liam. Sure if I can be the kind of steady person who can commit for the long haul the way my own father didn’t.

Not to me, anyway.

I try not to let bitterness rise up again. For years, I’ve felt okay about my family, but having Mike here has caused a lot of old feelings and memories to resurface. Unpleasant ones, as far as my family goes, tempered by fond memories with Mike. Just having him here makes me happy, even if there’s the bittersweetness of why he’s here.

If anything, Mike himself is a reminder of how fleeting and uncertain life is, how important it is to make use of the time we have. It makes me want to live without the kind of regrets I’ve been swimming in since this summer.

All this is assuming Naomi would consider a relationship with me again. She didn’t want to even come into the Summit—that’s how much she wanted to avoid seeing me. Am I stupid to think she’s still interested?

But I didn’t imagine the electric tension between us on the catwalk. The air between us practically crackling with tension. Her lips parting as my gaze fell there.

Until Naomi, once again, erected a barrier.

Still—all hope isn’t lost. Probably?

Mike cheers from the other room, and I wonder what it would be like to navigate a relationship with Naomi while he’s living here. Especially when I still don’t know how this will look long-term. In hockey, injured players are said to be day-to-day, week-to-week, or month-to-month. I’m not sure where Mike falls. Month-to-month?

Year-to-year?

I try to imagine broaching this conversation with Naomi.

Hey, want to go on a date? You probably need a babysitter for Liam, and I might need to be home early so I can make sure the grown man living with me doesn’t forget where he is and wander off. You’re welcome to come over any time so long as you don’t mind possibly seeing him in his underwear.

It definitely will be complicated.

I have two interviews set up for potential caretakers to stay with Mike during my upcoming string of road games. I really need one or both of them to work out. Having the first caretaker flake on me just a few weeks in, I’d like to have a list of qualified people. Backups upon backups. A few hours alone, like tonight, is fine, but leaving Mike while I’m out of town for days at a time isn’t a possibility.

“Are you coming?” Mike calls. “Bring me a beer, would ya?”

On my way into the living room, I grab him one of the nonalcoholic beers I’ve started stocking. They taste enough like the real thing that Mike hasn’t said anything. I’m not sure if he hasn’t noticed or just hasn’t questioned it. One more part of his reality he’s just rolling with.

“Have you called home lately?” Mike asks casually, sipping his beer as soon as I place it in his hand.

“No.”

“You should,” he tells me, nodding his head. “I know it’s not easy to let your kid go. They miss you.”

I don’t say anything as I take my seat on the couch, but my hands are shaking. They miss you . I wish Mike could remember enough to know how untrue those words are. He definitely wouldn’t be bringing up my family if he did.

I realize I’m clenching my fists and slowly release them, taking deep breaths and trying to focus on the game. A fight breaks out behind the net, and it’s enough to distract Mike from the subject of my family.

Another thing he doesn’t remember: the way my parents had not one but two surprise babies after I left. Twin daughters. Sarah and Elizabeth were premature and required a lot of extra work the first year. I didn’t feel jealous or upset when my parents stopped traveling to any of my games. I understood.

But then their weekly calls and texts became sporadic and slowed almost to a stop. When I went home to meet my sisters for the first time, I felt like an outsider. The guest room became the nursery, which meant my room was now the guest room. And because my parents had packed my things and put them in the attic, I felt like a guest in it.

And as excited as I was to meet my sisters, it didn’t go as expected. I didn’t know the first thing about babies, and Sarah and Elizabeth screamed whenever I tried to hold them or feed them. I didn’t have the emotional connection with them I expected. I didn’t have any connection at all, really. With my parents consumed by feedings and naps and diaper changes, I was sort of left to fend for myself.

It's not that I wanted everything to be all about me. But I no longer felt like I belonged in my own home—or in my family.

So, I left early and went back to Mike and the Bells.

I had a brief rough patch after that where I let this get in my head. I became a bit of a punk on and off the ice. It was Mike who talked sense into me, the way I hoped to do with that kid who picked on Liam.

Whenever I went back home to visit, it felt less and less like home each time. I don’t blame my sisters—how could I?—or even my mom and dad. Not really. It felt inevitable, the growing apart. Their world had been completely flipped upside down with unexpected joy. It was more than a new season—it was a new start. One that happened without me.

I could see the guilt on my parents’ faces every time they looked at me. So … I came home less and less. And then I found myself turning down an offer to play for Wisconsin, two hours from home, and saying yes to the University of Maine instead.

The gap between my family and me continued to widen, and it was Mike who flew out to see me play. Mike who checked up on me weekly. My parents and I became blood-related strangers who exchanged awkward holiday and birthday phone calls none of us enjoyed. I’m not sure I’d recognize my sisters if they passed by me on the street.

So being reminded of my family, especially as Mike probably thinks of them in his time-capsule mind, is not what I need tonight.

Is my avoidance healthy? Not particularly. But it’s how I’ve managed to live through what feels like losing my parents or being lost by them.

We finish the game, which thankfully didn’t have much time left. It’s a good one for Mike since the Leafs pull out a win. He goes to bed happy and thankfully doesn’t ask me tonight where Debbie is. I hate having to pretend his family is still together almost as much as I hate him asking about mine.

Once I hear his deep snores, I hop into bed and check my phone. I haven’t so much as looked at it since I walked in the door. Not surprisingly, the Dream Team group chat has been popping. I hesitate, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

After my teammates pointed out how closed off I am, I’ve been looking for an opportunity to change that. Now seems as good a time as any, when I could actually use some advice.

Camden: Hey

Not the most illustrious or creative start, but it’s something. And it’s immediately met by an avalanche of responses.

Finally, I feel the tension start to leak from my body.

Van: Well well well look who learned how to text

Eli: CAMMIE! LET’S GO!

Felix: Hey, Cam. Everything okay? Because you’re actually participating in the group chat.

Logan: Shh! Don’t scare him off. Be cool.

Camden: Ha ha

Nathan: Hey

Nathan: Is that cool enough?

Alec: I was sleeping but you’re texting so I got up.

Felix: Old man.

Alec: Guilty as charged. So, what’s up, Cam?

Van: Are you having some kind of emergency

Eli: IS ANYTHING ON FIRE

Nathan: Why would your brain go straight there?

Alec: Please ignore them both.

Camden: More of an existential crisis.

Van: Is that different than a quarter life crisis

Logan : Shut up Van.

Felix: Respectfully, Van, shut up.

Logan: How can we help?

Wyatt: You guys make it very hard to sleep

I’m grateful Wyatt pops in because it distracts the guys long enough for me to type out perhaps the longest text I’ve ever written. When I hit send, there are a whole string of texts welcoming Wyatt, who doesn’t say much in the group chat since he moved to Boston.

Camden: I have a few things to share. (And no need to insert a crack about me not sharing, Van.) First, the reason I’ve been rushing home lately is because my old billet dad is living with me. He has early onset dementia and long story short—his family didn’t want to care for him. It’s been good, but a challenge. Second, I think I want to try again with Naomi. If she’ll have me.

Van: *faints in shock*

Eli: WOW. That’s WOW DUDE.

Felix: Man. There’s a lot to unpack. I’m sorry and also happy for you.

Logan: I’m sorry about your billet dad’s condition. Is that the right word to use?

Camden: Thanks. That works, yeah.

Alec: How’s your billet dad doing?

Camden: He’s in good spirits. He isn’t really aware of it, so he just kind of lives in a weird past/present hybrid.

Van: I’m sorry. That’s rough

Eli: So rough you got Van to use punctuation

Van: It was a one time thing

Logan: Do you need anything? What can we do?

Camden: I’ve got a caretaker who stays with him when I’m at practice and home games but need to find another one for our road games. The first one bailed. I have interviews set up, so I’ve got my fingers crossed.

Van: Not to be rude but can we talk about your woman now

Eli: RUDE

Felix: Reminder: we’re adults. Which means we can text using punctuation AND without using all caps. Except occasional all caps for emphasis, as demonstrated in the previous sentence.

Eli: DOUBLE RUDE

Van: Go to bed netminder

Logan: Guys, focus. Camden is talking to us about things.

Alec: Let us know if you need anything with your billet dad.

Nathan: I’d be happy to help.

Eli: SAME

Wyatt: What woman?

Eli: WYATT ENTERS THE GROUP CHAT

Felix: Eli, please stop with the all caps. I’m begging you.

Eli: OK

Van: Maybe if you stopped ignoring our texts you’d know, Oscar

Wyatt: Please don’t call me that

Logan: Why? Because you’re GROUCHY?

Wyatt: Do you really want me bringing up what the press has said about you in the past, L?

Logan: Touché. No one else call Wyatt Oscar, please.

Wyatt: ANYWAY

Wyatt: I read the texts even if I don’t always respond

Wyatt: I don’t remember anything about a woman.

Logan: I don’t think she made it into the group chat yet.

Van : She was at the Summit the other day

Felix: Can confirm.

Camden: Her name is Naomi. We dated last summer in the off-season. It was supposed to be casual.

Eli: You didn’t look at her with casual eyes

Van: WTF are casual eyes

Eli: I just mean Cammie looked at her like it was SERIOUS not casual

Logan: Which is what he just said, genius. Keywords: “supposed to be.”

Van: Since no one else is saying it she punched Camden

Nathan: Wow. Guess I should have volunteered at the camp.

Felix: Ignore everyone, Cam. What do you need? Advice? Listening ears? Ideas on grand gestures?

Van: Perhaps witty remarks

Camden: I don’t know what I need. Except your attempts at wit, Van. Don’t need that.

Eli: Burn

Logan: Take note, Van.

Van: It takes intelligence to understand wit

Felix: GUYS, PLEASE.

Eli: i thought you said no more all caps

Wyatt: Is this the woman who has a kid you told me about?

Eli: Hey, no fair! You talked to Wyatt and not us?

Alec: Maybe because he’s not obnoxious.

Wyatt: I may have moved but some people know how to still text me outside the group chat

I start to regret trying to say anything serious in the group chat when it totally derails into a discussion filled with insults and arguments. It’s a game night. Most of these guys probably left the rink and had a handful of beers. Maybe this was a stupid time to try to have a serious conversation.

A separate text pops up. Relieved, I close the group chat.

Logan: Hey, man. Sorry everyone is being so … everyone. Happy to talk any time. I know a thing or two about second chances.

Camden: I might take you up on that tomorrow. Thanks, man.

Logan: Night.

I briefly consider texting Naomi, but when I open our text thread and see our final messages from just before the breakup, I can’t make myself do it.

But when I hear one of Mike’s loud snores through the wall, I make a determination that I will talk to her. In person, though, not text. I won’t see her until after our next road series, but hopefully she’ll come inside to watch Liam now that we’ve broken the ice. And if not, I’ll go out to her car again.