Page 66 of Sweet Disaster
Chapter 23
Gavin
There was no reason for me to stick around in Europe any longer than I had to. Nothing left for me there – no job, no Kady. I packed up my things, gave my landlord notice, said goodbye to my teammates and booked a flight back to the U.S.
A lot can run through your mind when you’re trapped on a twelve-hour flight over the Atlantic. I wouldn’t categorize myself as a “thinking man,” but during the entire trip home, my head was filled with self-loathing, anxiety and what-ifs. I was flooded with despair, uncertain of how to get myself out of this mess.
All I’ve worked toward since I was a kid had just sunk down the proverbial drain. My life’s ambition was destroyed with the words, “You’re not strong enough; aggressive enough.” In a nutshell, I wasn’t good enough.
Rejection is part of being a professional player and comes with the territory. Players get cut, traded and benched all the time in the big leagues. It is what it is. But when it happens to you directly, it’s a sharp blade to the back and it hurts like a motherfucker.
Worry strangled my lungs during my long flight home. It became a struggle to breathe. I had to take long, steady breaths to calm myself and avoid any embarrassing panic attacks in front of the other passengers. That was the last thing I needed in the state I was in. To show up on some viral video entitled, “FORMER EUBO BASKETBALL PLAYER GOES CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS ON INTERNATIONAL FLIGHT.”
Embarrassment and disappointment are a heavy cocktail, leaving me feeling discombobulated. All my future professional prospects have been dashed by this setback. What if it is truly the end of my career? What the hell will I do now?
Even while plagued with self-doubt and shame, the image of Kady’s smiling face keeps popping into my head. I suppose it’s good that she’s gone, because there’s no reason she’d want to be with me now. She’d laugh in my face. Who the hell would date a guy with no future prospects? Nothing solid to live on or a way to ensure a financially stable future. I know she comes from money and grew up rich. She wouldn’t be caught dead with me, now.
Thankfully I do have a cushion to fall back on and to live on for the short-term. I’d wisely socked away the money I’d earned from the Euro league, when I wasn’t sending some to my mom monthly to help her out. I maybe have a year of rent and miscellaneous expenses, but that’s about it for my savings.
No matter how much I miss her, I haven’t contacted Kady since she left because I wouldn’t know what to say. I’m ashamed and broken in spirit. She wouldn’t want to be with me now, anyway. She deserves someone with a solid future. And since that’s not me, I’ve broken my promise to stay in contact with her.
I still think about her every day and I wonder what she’s been doing in Madrid. Is she having fun? Is she hooking up with that Antonio dude?
Fuck, the negative thoughts are killing me. My failures and short-comings in both my career and my love life feel like a large billboard advertisement in Times Square. Screamingly large and visible for the entire world to see, my picture would be captioned: “Real-life loser.”
I’m so blinded by my failures, I can’t see the possibilities. And it’s depressing as shit.
My flight lands in Phoenix and I lumber off the plane, wade through the customs line and then through baggage claim; my mind whirls and spins. My center of gravity is so far off kilter that I might fall face first and land in a heap on the floor. That could just be from the jetlag, but everything in my life feels slightly unstable and heavy.
The weight intensifies when I see my mom and brother waiting for me at the barrage carousel.
“Gavin! My baby boy!” my mother yells from thirty-feet away, sprinting across the carpeted floor and embracing me in a tight hug.
“Hey mom,” I mumble, as I’m squashed against her pillowy, motherly-bosom, choking off my air supply.
She laughs and lets me go from the hug, but keeps her hands on my arms, stepping back to examine me.
“You’ve bulked up. You look good, but tired. Have you been sleeping okay?”
I roll my eyes at Christian, who stands behind her and makes an obscene gesture. He bends down and puts his chin on her shoulder.
“Ma, he just flew twelve hours over three time zones. Of course, he’s tired. Or it could be from all the loving he got from the Italian senoritas while he was there.”
He raises his eyebrows suggestively and my hand darts out to punch him on the arm.
“Christian!” she admonishes in her motherly tone. “That is crude. Knock it off before I smack you upside the head.”
I chime in. “Yeah, knock that shit off, dumbass. And by the way, wrong language, bro.”
My brother gives me confused look. “Huh?”
“Senoritas is Spanish, you tool. Signore is Italian for lady. Donne is women.”
Christian sticks his nose in the air and places his hands on his hips, swinging them from side to side.
“Well, la-tee-da. Aren’t we just so culturally sophisticated and shit now?”
I push past him and grab my bag off the conveyor belt, swinging my carry-on bag into his stomach for him to grab onto and carry.
