Maybe it’s a joke? Everyone knows that Shelby and I are married. There was no hiding her name from the media when she used to be a supermodel. Maybe someone thought this would be a funny way to convince me not to retire.
I need to talk to her.
“Excuse me,” I finally mutter, standing and weaving my waypast the crowd of reporters that seems to have doubled since I was handed this envelope.
I duck into a dark hallway that leads to some of the assistant coaches’ offices and PT rooms, not really sure where I’m going, but I know I can’t be around all those people. I don’t bother to see if anyone follows, but I hear someone say “No media access back there, leave him alone” pretty harshly.
God, I hate that my team has to step up and defend me. That’s supposed to be my job.
Luckily I’d already grabbed my phone from my bag, so I pull up Shelby’s number. After what feels like an agonizing pause where the phone rings far too many times, she finally answers.
“Hey.”
“Sweetie, what's going on? A man just handed me what looks like divorce papers. Is it real?” The silence on the other end of the call has my stomach twisting. The hope that this was all a misunderstanding is fading fast, stealing my future and all my hopes and plans with it. “Can’t we talk about this?” I practically beg, my voice cracking.
“Hudson, you had to have seen this coming,” she finally answers, sounding like this conversation is already exhausting her. “I’ve told you that I didn’t want kids.”
Um, no. She didn’t. That would have definitely stood out to me. “But we talk about having kids all the time.”
“No, you’ve been talking about having kids constantly. I’ve been trying to talk about literally anything else. I told you a few months ago that I wasn’t getting pregnant.”
“I thought you meant while I was traveling so much, not forever. I’ll be retired, I’ll be home all the time now.”
“Yeah, that’s not the selling point you think it is,” she says dismissively. “I have no desire to volunteer to get fat and be tired all the time. There’s just no way I would willingly get pregnant.”
What the actual fuck is happening right now?How could I have been so wrong about what my wife had planned for us? Maybe it’s just cold feet about thebeingpregnant part. Maybe there’s a chance I could still fix this.
Feeling desperate, I try to come up with a compromise. “Well, don't celebrities hire people to grow their babies? We could do that.”
Shelby sighs loudly into the phone. “You don’t get it, Hudson. Babies are always there. If I have a baby to take care of, how will I go on trips or go shopping or do all of the things I need to do for myself?”
“You’d really rather go shopping than be a mother?”
“Don’t make it sound so awful, not everyone wants to be a parent. Plus, if you’re retiring soon, how will I afford that stuff anyway? It's been fun but it's over. Don’t come home. This place is mine. I picked it out and designed everything. You’re never here anyway so it won’t even matter. I'll have my lawyer call your lawyer.”
She hangs up.
And just like that my marriage is… over?
All the plans I’d been making in my head, the two of us decorating a nursery, singing to the baby, teaching them how to walk and talk, none of that will happen now. I had all these ideas of what our family would look like: what sports the kids might play, that I could help coach, the vacations I wanted to take them on, even the books I was excited to read to them.
What the fuck do I do now?
My future hasn’t felt this uncertain since I entered the draft.
I think I might be breathing too quickly, or maybe not enough? Whatever my problem is, I’m dizzy. I feel like I’ve lost all sense of what’s real. My vision isn’t focusing on anything in particular and it’s taking all my mental energy to stay standing instead of sinking down onto the floor.
Fuck, am I actually having vision and balance problems? Should I be calling 911? No, no. I’m not Dad. I’m okay.
I take a deep breath, stand up straight, and focus on the sheet that’s posted on the wall in front of me with our PT’s schedule.
I can read it fine, my vision isn’t really blurring, I’m not actually losing my balance.I’m okay.
I numbly turn back toward the locker room. I can’t go back in there. I can’t be around the media or my teammates when I can’t even remember how to breathe properly. I’m the team’s fucking captain for god’s sake. I’m supposed to have my shit together and be the example they look up to. Not be hiding alone in a dark hallway while my life falls apart.
But as I finally focus, I realize I’m not even alone for this freak out.
Awesome.
