Bianca - Monday Morning
I satin my office Monday morning staring at my computer screen. It wasn’t a wonder Evan was so guarded about his shoulder. The little bits of things he’d mentioned about his father had me wondering, and since my father hadn’t been co-operative, I looked it up.
Brent Callahan spent three years playing for the Boston Enforcers before the organization traded him to the Vancouver Dominators. He was married to the love of his life at twenty-two, two years after moving to Vancouver. A year later, they welcomed their baby boy, Evan, into the world. Brent Callahan had taken the Dominators to victory, scoring the winning goal in four back-to-back Stanley Cup games.
The following year, after signing one of the largest contracts in the Dominators’ history, he took a direct blow to the knee. After time off for surgery and rehabilitation, he never returned to the ice.
I scrolled through articles that reported he’d gotten addicted to the pain medication they’d put him on. There was nothingin any of the sports articles for almost a year, and then the headlines started about his marriage. They claimed things were strained and that he had depression and addiction. There were a few pictures of him out with his wife. It seemed they took advantage of any chance they got to photograph and write articles about him.
I continued scrolling, finally coming to articles about Evan, playing on the local junior teams, winning awards, photographed with his mother, his father always in the background, looking worse each time. Then I came across an article highlighting the fact that Evan’s mother, Jolene, had announced her separation from Brent.
Tears sprang to my eyes as I read the article. When Jolene walked, Brent got worse. It was the next article I’d found that had stopped me from scrolling. I stared at the article. The Dragons had just drafted Evan, and shortly after, Brent Callahan committed suicide.
My stomach heaved at the thought. While I’d gathered things had been bad for Evan, I never thought something like this. I sat there, staring at the computer in shock.
“What’s got you looking so down?” I heard a familiar voice say.
I swallowed hard, tearing my eyes off the computer screen to see Evan standing at the edge of my desk, two coffees and two bags in hand. When I said nothing, he placed them down on the desk and then leaned forward to look at my screen.
“What the hell are you watching one of those romantic flicks aga?—”
I could see the color drain from his face when he realized what I’d been reading, and then he stood up and glared at me.
“Evan, I can explain?—”
“No, no need. I get it, you didn’t feel you could ask me about my father, so like many others, you decided it would be better to read it from the media.”
“No, that’s not it. I…I didn’t want to upset you by asking…”
“Oh, I get it. You didn’t want to upset me, so instead you went to a credible source. I’d rather you had asked the guys on the fucking team. At least I’d know you’d know the truth. Well, I hope you learned all you needed to know about me and my psychosis. I’m out of here.”
“Wait, Evan, please, let’s talk.”
“Nope, there is nothing to talk about. You have your story, so now deal with it.”
A coupleof weeks had gone by since Evan found me reading articles on his father. We’d barely spoken since. He was even grumpier and more unbearable than ever at work, and even worse when we were at home. I did my best to avoid him, spending time out of the condo, visiting old friends, and even spending time with my father. When he’d asked me how things were going, I just smiled and said they were fine.
It was a Tuesday morning, I’d just finished some meetings and was now in my happy place, re-setting and cleaning up the training room, wiping down tables and organizing things, getting ready for some upcoming sessions. While most hated this part of the job, I didn’t mind. It gave me a sense of order and a break after the chaos I’d been living at home and from dealing with an entire team of hockey players demanding my attention.
“Hey, Bianca? Do you have a second?” Tate Parker asked just as I’d just begun organizing the resistance bands.
I glanced up, smiling. I still remembered when my father had called him up from the AHL at the young age of twenty-two. Now twenty-four, he still had that wide-eyed look of someone who couldn’t believe he was still here.
“Hey, Tate, of course. What’s up?”
“I have a question regarding injury protocols.”
“Okay?” I said, turning my full attention to him. “What is it?”
“Well, I’m just a little confused. If someone were to tweak his shoulder, nothing major of course, but it’s been bothering them for a while, what exactly is the protocol? Do you tell Coach right away or…”
Immediately, my professional trainer mode kicked in. Worried that perhaps he’d hurt himself, I walked around the desk, grabbing my tablet and opening his file.
“What happened?” I asked. “I want to get this on the record.”
“Oh, nothing happened. I was more curious than anything, being newer and all.”
I took my time explaining the entire injury reporting process to him. Then I went into the difference between manageable discomfort, so he could tell the difference between mild or something that might sideline him for weeks. When I finished, I looked at him, waiting for a response.
