I really wanted to be alone right now. Was that too much to ask?
I was never the most social guy in the room. Hell, there were probably millions of guys in both Pasadena and Winnipeg that could carry a conversation a fuck-ton better than I could. So, feeling this way wasn't really out of the ordinary for me.
But this situation, the one I was in in that moment, couldn't be more extraordinary.
It took a lot to rattle me, so it didn't happen often. Maybe at the draft, when for weeks and months you've been hearing from every coach, agent, and hockey TV personality that you'd be drafted first overall, yet your name hasn't been called on the big stage before anyone else's quite just yet.
Even then, though, I don't think the situation compares. Bar none, this was the closest I've ever been to finally making it, to doing the thing I wanted to do all along.
It wasn't just a want to be alone. It had become a need.
Because they just never fucking stopped talking.
"It's you, it's you! It's gonna be you!" Michael Dal Corso said.
He was sitting on the backrest of the couch, which gave him convenient access to my shoulders. For a reason I sure as hell didn't know, Mikey took it upon himself to knead his knuckles into my rotator cuff.
Yeah. That wasn't welcomed. I didn't have the first clue in how to respond to his tire pumping. It was a fine line between sound appreciative and arrogant.
At least right now the other two were finally shutting their mouths. David Spooner was hunched over on the loveseat, eyes glued to his phone and Alex Martin was standing near the TV with his arms crossed behind his head.
"Man, Taylor, you should see Twitter. It's blowing up right now!" David said.
So much for the quiet.
The hockey show on SportsCast was on a commercial break, which meant that there were at least a few more opinions I didn't have to deal with. Why was I even watching it to begin with? I guess like my fellow AHL teammates that were in my room with me, I wanted to be kept in the loop. We had been in Saint Paul the night before for an away game and some of us were watching the game on our devices on the short flight back home.
I wasn't one of those people. It was uncharacteristic of me to miss a Storm game but nights when I played were the exception. I preferred to put my headphones on, crank some music and reflect on my performance. It hadn't been a bad one. I tallied two goals and an assist, but I also took a stupid penalty in the third period, which St. Paul scored on, bringing them to within one. Taking penalties wasn't part of my game; I wanted to win games for my team, not lose them. We did end up keeping the lead, but still.
It wasn't until David, who was sitting in the seat behind me, nudged my shoulder that I rejoined reality.
"You're going to want to see this," was all he said.
I took his phone in my hands. The Storm game was streaming and it only took all of ten seconds of watching the screen and listening to the commentator to piece together what was happening.
The Storm's top centre.
Collision with opposing player.
Leaves game.
Unlikely to return.
At that point, I didn't think too much of it, except hoping that Jake Jensen would be okay. The thing with hockey injuries is that they were so unpredictable. Sometimes you see guys crash into the boards and the whole arena takes a collective breath, only to see him return for his next shift mere minutes later. Then there are times when it's the most innocent looking, barely noticeable event that does the most damage. A shot deflected off a skate. An errant slash to the hands. Out for eight weeks with a broken ankle/wrist/whatever.
That's why, in the hockey world, until you got an official update from team personnel, you should assume that you knew nothing.
And now, we were getting that update.
Ron and the rest of the guys that headlined SportsCast returned from the break, announcing that they received word from the Storm's medical team.
Before that, I had to sit through the torturous speculation of what a potential injury could mean for the team. Because of course they had to talk about something, even if they what they were talking about had as much truth to it as Santa Claus. (Sorry kids.)
And to my displeasure but to my teammates' amusement, they were talking about the prospect of calling up, of finally giving a chance to...
"Taylor Hudson!" Mikey exclaimed. "I told you this is your chance. You heard it hear first folks." He pointed to David and Alex, waved his silly antics off.
"They did not say that," I mumbled. I didn't mean to, but my hands were covering my mouth, muffling my speech.
"Calm down guys, so we can hear, for fucks sakes!" Alex warned.
Finally.
Someone on my side.
Although, that wasn't true. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that all three of these guys were on my side, on my team. Despite the fact that they were annoying as fuck, there was a reason why I hadn't kicked them out.
Yet.
When Ron opened his mouth, it was like my concentration simultaneously zoomed in and dispersed into nothingness. It wouldn't matter what prize would be offered to me; if I had to recite what he said word-for-word, I wouldn't be able to do it.
But I did hear the most important part.
Jensen had torn his ACL.
He was out for the season.
Holy shit.
"Hey, that sucks for him," Mike said quietly. "But now it's official. Someone is going to have to take his spot."
"Everyone on Twitter keeps saying it'll be you," David offered, like their opinions really meant something.
No disrespect to the good folks of Twitter. They're just not the General Manager of the Storm.
"Have you heard anything from your agent or someone from the team?" Alex had the balls to ask.
Have I? Seriously? Have I fucking answered a call or received a text?
I just shook my head.
The three guys' chatter filled my head like a million buzzing bees, moving on to talk about how the lineup change would impact their fantasy pool team.
That was enough.
"Okay, guys, I appreciate you visiting and all, but please scram."
David feigned an expression of hurt. "What, you think that you're getting called up and now you're better than us?"
"Yes, that's exactly it. See you clowns later."
I ignored their barrage of chirps as I walked them to my apartment door. There wasn't silence until I shut the door in their faces.
Forgive a man for wanting to pace his place in peace.
My phone, which was laying without a care in the world on the couch, taunted me. I wanted it so desperately to ring, buzz, beep, anything that would indicate that my agent was contacting me. I forbade myself from holding it in my hand. If, and it was a big if, I was going to get called up, it would take time to finalize. The news of his injury just broke, and the General Manager of the Storm had to call my agent, Darren Wallace, who then had to call me.
I'd give it ten minutes before I'd allow myself to check it obsessively. It just won't ring until then...
Holy shit.
It started ringing.
I dashed across my living room and nearly rammed my calf into the corner of the cheap, wooden coffee table. Imagine if I got injured like that at a time like this?
As I picked up the phone I checked the caller ID quickly and let out a sigh of relief.
"Taylor? Taylor, it your mother. You're on speaker phone." That made sense, considering she was practically yelling. Her regular voice was loud enoughâa trait I hadn't inheritedâbut whenever she was on speaker or FaceTime, she upped her volume for god knows why. "Your father and uncle are here as well. We've all heard the news."
My mom's voice boomed throughout the apartment. She sounded like she was having a hernia. Good god, woman.
"Have you heard anything?" I recognized my uncle's voice. And his tone. No bullshit.
"No, I haven't. Not yet."
"Okay, we'll let you go then, in case Darren does give you a call. Just let us know," my dad said.
Hearing his voice distracted me. Instantly calmed me. I was like my father in more ways than one. I inherited his large build; calm, quiet voice; and introverted ways. He may not have been as instrumental to my hockey career as my uncle was, but I owed my character to my dad.
"Yeah, I will. Love you guys."
"We love you too!" my mom said.
I hung up immediately after that. After chucking the phone back onto the couch, I ran my hands through my hair.
Darren was a good dude and I always enjoyed receiving a call from him, but one now would be really fucking appreciated. I've known since him since my first year in Detroit. He's a fellow American like me, from Boston, and was a coach at the time. He was trying to transition into the role of agent and he asked me if I'd like to be his first client. I was fifteen at the time. If that didn't mean that he believed in me, then I don't know what it meant. Having your agent believe in you as a player and a person was the most important thing. Otherwise, they wouldn't fight for you.
My mouth was starting to go dry so I walked to my kitchen to get a glass of water. As I was pouring tap water into a glass, my phone rang. I dropped the glass into the sink, praying that it wouldn't shatter but also not caring enough to ensure that it didn't.
It was probably my mom again. Maybe she forgot to tell me something or just wanted to check in again. That would be just like her.
No.
It was Darren.
Like an absolute moron, I watched the phone ring on that damn couch cushion, frozen in place. What if he called to tell me to stop worrying, that it wasn't going to be me? I don't think I could handle that.
When I finally found my spine again, I lunged for the phone, only to find that it had stopped ringing.
Fuck.
I went to call him back but luckily it started ringing again. Hallelujah.
"Hi," I answered breathlessly.
"Taylor, where the hell were you? I thought you'd answer on the first ring. Haven't you seen SportsCast?"
Darren, buddy, don't be like this.
"What's up, Darren?"
It was like the world stopped, rearranged itself, and came out better than ever.
"You're getting called up. The team practices tomorrow at nine at Rogers' Rink. The next hockey game you play will be with the Storm."
That was all fine and dandy but it was his last words that were what dreams are made of.
"In the NHL."
A million thoughts swarmed my head and a thousand words wanted to pour out of my mouth but I didn't say any of them. Or anything at all.
"Thank you," I sputtered what felt like five minutes later.
"You earned it, kid. I'm going to have to let you go now because there's a lot of paperwork and such I need to send over to the GM, but you call me whenever, okay?"
"Yeah, I got it."
Darren ended the call and I just stood there with the phone in my hand.
What could have been ten seconds or ten minutes later, I dialled the first number saved in my speed dial.
"Mom, put me on speaker and get Dad and Uncle Mark in the room."
"They're here, they're here!"
"Please let there be good news, Taylor!" Uncle Mark said.
I wanted to say something witty or clever, trick them or something, but I didn't have the brain power at that moment to think of something.
"I'm going to play in the NHL!" I said, my body crouching down on the floor in excitement.
My mom screamed. Uncle Mark whooped. My dad clapped.
I sat there laughing.
After I told them that I'd update them with details about the game and how they could watch it when I found all that out, I hung up.
Still in that stupid crouch position, the face of the person that I wanted to tell next flashed in my mind. So, I texted Lawson.
Taylor: I got called up.
I wasn't one to be flowery with good news. Just tell it like it is and try your best to be humble.
If I wasn't on the brink of being a professional athlete and didn't have the body of one, my calves probably would have cramped by this point. But this was nothing to me, nothing compared to the gruelling work I put my body through to get here.
Lawson: Holy crap! You serious? Congrats!!
My fingers typed out what I wanted to say next, but my thumb hovered over the Send button. Would she even want to know? Would it be odd if I just texted her out of the blue like this? She is a big fan, she's admitted that more than once, so we can consider this an act of me giving back to the fans.
Yeah, that didn't sound like a total douche move.
Just send the damn text.
Taylor: Do you know Camille's number?
Lawson: I don't but I'm with Angela. One sec.
Lawson: Angela wants to know who wants it and why.
Holy fuck.
Taylor: Tell her Taylor wants to tell her something.
Lawson: Fine.
As soon as the digits came on my screen, I clicked the number. So much for texting her.
"Hello?" a soft, feminine voice answered on the other line. Her tone was quiet, tentative.
"Hey, Camille, it's Taylor." Now would be a really bad time for my voice to break, like it sometimes did. I kept my voice low, to match her volume.
"Oh, hey." A pause. I swear I heard her gulp. "How...how are you?"
Call it intuition, but I got the sense that she was distracted, like she was moving around. When I heard the soft pad of footsteps and the closing of the door, my theory was confirmed.
"I'm well, thanks. How are you?"
"I'm good, how about you?"
Oh geez.
If I burst out laughing right now, would that offend her? Probably.
"Good," I said, pressing my fist to my mouth to stave off my laughter.
"Oh god, this is so embarrassing," she muttered. "I already asked you that, never mind."
I was grinning like an idiot. It was so obvious she was nervous, which made me a little nervous. But it also empowered me, knowing that I wasn't the only one who was made uncomfortable by phone calls.
"Don't worry, it's totally fine. Is now an okay time? I just wanted to tell you something. I got your number from Angela, by the way. I hope that's okay."
"Yeah, that's cool. What's up?" Her voice piqued with intrigue.
I just went for it.
"I got called up to the NHL."
"Oh my god, that's amazing, Taylor. Congratulations."
Camille sounded happy, no doubt about that, but there was something else there...
"Did you already know?"
She let out the softest laugh in the history of the world. "I did. My dad has SportsCast on TV right now," she admitted. There was a hint of the most adorable guilt in her voice.
Huh. That meant that the news had already went public. Word travels fast in the hockey world.
"Ah, I see."
"You must be so happy," she said. "I can't even imagine."
"I don't think it's even sunken in right now, to be honest."
"Just wait until you're on the ice at the Modar Centre again."
"Yeah, you're probably right."
There was a beat of silence. And then another one.
Yeah, I'll admit. I wasn't sure what else to say at this point.
"Soâ
"Thanksâ"
We spoke at the same time.
"You first," I said.
"I just wanted to thank you for calling to tell me," she said.
"Oh, yeah, no problem. Even though it was kind of pointless," I laughed.
"No, it was nice to hear it from the man himself."
"Yeah."
More pauses.
"I'll let you go, Camille. I'm sure you have...homework problems to do."
A soft laugh met my ear. Was she seriously laughing at me? Okay, homework problems did sound pretty fucking lame.
"Sounds good. Congrats again."
"I guess I'll talk to you later?"
"Yeah, sure."
That call was surreal. After I ended it, I looked at my phone for a few seconds. As awkward as it was, was it weird that I wanted to talk to Camille again some time soon?
I tossed my phone back onto the couch and let my feet carry me to my bedroom. I felt lighter than a 220-pound man should ever have the right to. In the ensuite, I stripped down. A shower was probably in order considering how much I sweat in the past hour. With nothing but my necklace on, I stepped into the stream of hot water. I stood there for a couple seconds, letting the water drench my hair and push the dark strands onto my forehead and into my eyes.
Some people sang in the shower, but I one-upped them.
I screamed.