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The Sun is setting over the water, but I'm still soaking up the rest of the day's rays as I kick back on my beach towel.
And what a Sunset! It's a swirl of tropical colors, pinks and yellows and blues and reds, all reflecting over the ocean.
“Man,” I laugh to myself. “This is beautiful. Fuck Chicago. They should've traded me to Tampa.”
I figure the Hawks are probably wrapping up their game against the Lightning right about now. I take a sip from my bottle.
“They're probably wondering where I am,” I snort, gagging as the drink goes down the wrong pipe. I wipe my mouth. “Probably bitching so hard about it, too. Fuckin' Jones this, fuckin' Jones that.”
My phone rings. It's been ringing all day, ever since my flight landed. I saw the hired chauffeur outside the airport, holding the sign with the Hawks logo and my name – Callan Jones – right under it.
Something about the scene, something about seeing my name and the Hawks logo together, filled me with dread. And instead of meeting my chauffeur, I panicked. I ducked my head and walked right past the chauffeur and prayed he wouldn't recognize me.
He didn't. I wandered off, got in line for a cab, and told the cabbie to take me to the beach instead.
I didn't know what the hell I was doing – but I was doing it, alright. And booze helped me forget about it pretty quickly.
This time my phone rings, though, I actually pick it up and look at it.
The caller ID reads Grams.
“Oh shit,” I whisper. She's been trying to get a hold of me ever since the news broke that I got traded. But I couldn't bear to tell her why, so I let her calls go to voicemail.
The phone rings again and again. My thumb hovers over the answer button, but something stops me. A jolt courses through my hand and my thumb taps the green button, whether or not I meant for it to happen. I grimace and pull the phone up to my ear.
“Hi Grams.”
“Callan!” she gasps. “I've been trying to get a hold of you for days! Where are you?”
“Um.” I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. “What do you mean, Grams?”
“What do I mean?” she laughs sardonically. “I'm watching the game on TV, Callan! I wanted to at least see you with your new team since you won't call me back ... but then the announcers say you're not playing? That your new team doesn't even know where you are? What's going on, Callan? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I grumble. “I'm uh – I made it in okay, Grams. Everything's fine.”
“So why aren't you playing? Why aren't you out there? Is there a problem?”
Man. I dunno how to even tell her. I take a long pull from my beer bottle instead. She patiently waits for me to find the words that just don't wanna come out.
At last, I open my mouth and try. “I can't play hockey anymore, Grams. It's over.”
“What on Earth are you talking about? Are you injured?”
“No ... I'm fine. But my career is done.”
“You're not making any sense,” she laughs, but it's not an amused laugh. “Have you been drinking, Callan?”
“Yup,” I say arrogantly, popping the 'p.'
“Callan ...”
“They know, Grams.”
“Who? Who knows what?”
“The Jets. That's why I got traded.”
“... What do they know?” she asks, her voice quieting.
“My secret.” I roll my eyes. I hate calling it that. But we both know exactly what my secret is. That's how I broke the news to Grams back when I was 17 – that I had a horrible 'secret' too awful to share. I was visiting her after a year away from home, playing Junior hockey in Erie. I hadn't wanted to tell her at all. But she knew I was hiding something. And she finally wrestled it out of me.
A long pause before Grams speaks again.
“So what? You're giving up on your dream that easily, Callan?”
“You don't understand. When word gets around, they won't wanna play with me. I don't want to give it up, but it's over anyway.”
She laughs. “After all the trouble you've been through. After all the people who told you that you weren't good enough. All those people who didn't believe in you – me included!” She shrieks out a bitter, pained laugh. “You know I've never forgiven myself for that, right?”
I frown. “Aw, Grams ...”
“I just can't believe that after all you've been through, you'd give up now. Because of who you like. Don't give up now, Callan.”
“This is different, though.”
“Why?”
“Because ... the guys in the room ... they'll get freaked out. They'll think I'm looking at them, Grams. They'll never truly accept me or be comfortable around me ... I'll always be 'the gay guy.'”
“Remember how scared you were to tell me your secret? How you thought I'd disown you?”
“Yeah,” I say with a gulp.
“And?”
“And ... you didn't.”
“So maybe you're wrong about this time, too?”
“I dunno. I really don't know about that. You're not around these guys when we're out having fun. You don't hear the way these guys talk. It's really not an okay thing.”
“I just don't see how it's different. Anytime someone said you couldn't play hockey, you fought to prove 'em wrong. I wish I had supported you better back then, Callan – well, now I get to make up for it. Go back to your team, Callan. Please. I'm so proud of you – and who you are – and what you do. Don't break my heart. Go back to your team.”
“Grams ...”
“Promise me you will.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck. I can't break her heart.
“... I promise.”
“Thank you, Callan.”
“Yeah.” I gulp. I can't lie to Grams. I don't know if I'll be able to get myself out of this mess. But I have to at least try, or she'll be disappointed in me.
I hear the hockey game on her TV in the background. “Hey Grams.”
“Hm?”
“... how are the Hawks doing without me?”
I hear her take a deep breath. “You really wanna know?”
“Yeah.”
“They're gettin' a whooping, Cal.”
“Shit.”
“Language!”
“Shoot. Sorry. They're gonna be mad at me.”
“So you'll apologize, and then you'll make it up to them and earn their trust right back.”
“Yeah.” I close my eyes and nod. More like, yeah right.
“You call me later and let me know how you're doing, alright?”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I toss my phone in the sand at my side. Dammit. I really f'ed this one up. I wish I had just walked up to that chauffeur like a normal person would have ... what the hell is wrong with me? Now I look like a run-away crybaby to the rest of the team.
I'm getting off on the total wrong foot with the Hawks. I made the GM look stupid for trading for me. The coach will hate me because I shortened his bench and made his team play like shit. And the players? Ha. Huge uphill climb with them. They won't trust me for pulling this garbage. And that's before they find out about me. It's just a matter of time 'til that happens.
But oh well. When it happens, it happens. At least then I can say I tried. Grams is right about that. Right now, the only way I could make this situation worse is if I don't even try to make it right.
“Idiot,” I mumble at myself. I stand up and dust the sand off my butt. I pour the rest of my beer out on the beach and grab my things. On the walk back to my hotel, I dial the Hawks' GM on my phone.
“Hey, Doug. This is Callan Jones ... listen, I'm really sorry, ...”