I grieved, I mourned, I lamented.
I accepted that I was granted grace while others were not.
So why the fuck am I continually plagued by a plane killing me?
And it’s not always a plane falling from the sky. Often I’m on the plane and we’re in a long plummet to the earth. It’s so terrifying, I’ve vomited coming back into consciousness.
Sometimes I dream that I’m driving down the road and the plane crashes in the distance but the fireball rolls outward and engulfs my car in flames, blistering my skin painfully. I’ve come out of those dreams slapping at my body to snuff out the fire.
Christ, I’m a mess.
My head rolls on my pillow and I sigh as I take in the time: 4:03 a.m. I know I’m not going back to sleep. Close my eyes and I’ll go right back into my nightmare. Sit here with my eyes open, I’ll only think about it.
I should get out of bed and do my workout, but I’ve got no motivation at all. Instead, I nab the remote control and turn on the television. It casts the room into an immediate blue tinge—a good murder mystery is sure to take my mind off falling jets. Maybe even distract me enough that I can fall asleep. I didn’t go to bed until a little after midnight and I need more sleep to function. We have a team meeting at eight a.m. and then practice at nine.
After some surfing, I settle into a three-part docuseries about a set of interconnected murders across two states. Some would find it odd I can watch this stuff after experiencing a nightmare, but I’ve always found true crime shows and podcasts fascinating. I need my mind to be fully engaged in something other than my woes.
Ten minutes in and I know I chose wisely. I’m fully hooked and I forget about planes and friends dying. It doesn’t look like I’ll fall back to sleep, but that might be for the best anyway.
♦
Blissfully deep in slumber, I swim upward into consciousness because of a noise that penetrates the fog. An insistent banging, almost desperate in nature. I crack an eye, slightly alarmed at how bright my room is, but I’m not sure why that would cause me distress.
Bang, bang, bang.
The other eye opens and I focus on the bedside clock.
Nine forty-one a.m.
That seems awful late for me to still be in bed.
And then it hits me all at once.
Practice!
“Fuck,” I groan as I scramble out of bed, twisting up in the sheets and falling to my knees. I had surgery on the left one over a year ago and I’ve healed well, but that did not feel good.
Bang, bang, bang. “Camden… open the fucking door or I’m knocking it down.”
Jesus Christ.
That’s Coach West’s voice.
I kick the sheets away, jump up from the floor and lurch out of my bedroom. I careen against a wall and stumble into my living room.
Bang, bang—
Lunging for the handle, I twist the dead bolt and throw open the door to find Coach with his fist raised.
I brace for him to scream at me because this is bad.
Very, very bad.
I missed practice and the fucking head coach is on my doorstep. This is so bad, I’m sure he’s here to fire me.
Instead, he lowers his hand as his eyes laser focus on me. I can see he doesn’t like anything he sees—a disheveled man in his boxers who probably has sheet crease marks on his face, hair standing on end and sleep gunk in his eyes.
“Get some coffee on,” he says with aplomb. “Let’s chat.”
Get some coffee on? Let’s chat.
I’m absolutely discombobulated by his composure when any other coach in the league would be yelling right now about what a colossal fuck-up this is. I’m struck mute and frozen in place, the only thing jolting me out of it is when Coach West brushes past me. He glances around and heads toward the kitchen.
“Let me put some clothes on,” I mumble.
Coach seems unperturbed by any of this. “I’ll figure out the coffee pot.”
I turn for my bedroom, my head spinning with the implications of the conversation we’re about to have. There’s a very good chance I’m going to be fired… released from my contract and the team. Best-case scenario, sent down to the minors.
I hastily put on a pair of track pants and a T-shirt. I use the restroom, wash my hands and then run them wet through my hair in an attempt to look somewhat presentable.
When I make it back to the kitchen, I see that Coach has figured out I don’t have a coffee pot but rather a fancy espresso machine. He’s either a mechanical genius or he knows his way around one, because there are two cups of coffee on the table. Not so surprising, given that his girlfriend used to be a barista.
Coach West uses his foot to kick a chair out and nods at it. I sit, pulling the coffee toward me, but make no effort to drink it. The rising steam tells me it will remove a layer of skin until it cools some.
I flush with angst as Coach West stares at me. “When you didn’t show up for the team meeting, we tried calling, but you didn’t answer.”
“I must not have heard it.” Was I that deep asleep? It’s possible since I’ve been running on fumes.
“You scared a lot of people. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“I can’t believe I overslept,” I blurt with a lot more apologies rushing out. “I am so sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night so I watched some TV. I thought I would stay awake until it was time to get up but I must’ve fallen asleep. I guess I forgot to set my alarm clock or maybe I did. I don’t know, it’s just… that’s never happened to me before. I am so fucking sorry. Please don’t terminate my contract.”
Coach doesn’t say anything for a moment but picks up his cup and blows across the liquid before taking a small sip. When he sets it down, his voice is level but not unemotional. “I’m not sure what I’ve done that would lead you to believe I’d be the type of person to terminate a player for missing a practice.”
Why I feel the need to argue against this is beyond me, yet I point out, “You set very high expectations for your players when you first got here. You said you expected everyone to be on time and at every practice unless somebody was dead or dying.”
His lips curl into a half smile. “That is indeed what I said. It’s also the reason I’m here. I thought you were dead or dying.”
My face flushes hot with embarrassment. It’s humiliating. But then something occurs to me. “Why are you here? I mean… why didn’t you send one of the assistant coaches, or hell… even someone from the administrative offices to check on me?”
Coach West circles his fingertip around the edge of his coffee cup as he contemplates my question. When his eyes rise to meet mine, he says, “Again… a little disappointed you would think I’m that type of coach. First, you know damn well I delegate a lot of shit to my assistant coaches. They’re more than capable of carrying on with practice without me being there. But as head coach, I’m ultimately responsible for everyone on this team. And if you were dead or dying, by God… I was going to be the one who found you. I’m not putting that on anyone else’s doorstep. But most importantly, the reason I’m here is it’s time to have a transparent conversation about what in the hell is wrong with you.”
My eyebrows rise. “Excuse me?”