On The Line

Music began to echo through my silent bedroom. I lifted my head, barely opening my eyes, only to find that the room was still pitch black. “There is no way it is time to get up yet,” I thought to myself and flopped my head back onto my pillow in defeat. As the music continued, I rolled over to my other side in hopes of finding where the sound was coming from. Through the mess of wild hair that was covering my face, I could see a soft, dim glow in the distance. The music had to be coming from the lit up object on my dresser. My cell phone.

I push my feet out from under the covers and glance at the alarm clock sitting on my bedside table. I let out an exaggerated huff, wondering why someone would be calling me at 3:18 in the morning, and clumsily stood. Of course my legs would not want to work; no part of my body should be awake at that hour on a Tuesday.

Once finally reaching my phone, music still blaring, I glare down at the screen with confusion clouding my mind. “Erik!! :) :)” flashed there with me just staring at it for a good five seconds before I got myself to push the accept button.

“Hello?” I questioned. It came out with more of a quizzical tone than an actual greeting.

“Beck?” his voice rang in my ear. I tried to remember the last time I heard his voice. Sure, I hear it on TV every once in a while for a pre-game or post-game interview when I sit down to watch him play, but when had a last heard him talk to me or say my name. It’s been too long. “Rebecca, please talk to me. I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch.”

I could hear the sadness in his voice, as if he were about to break down any second. It pulled at my heart strings. We may not be close anymore, but we were best friends at one point so it ate me up inside to know he was hurting.

I was living in Ottawa when Erik got drafted by the Senators in the summer of 2008. He was eighteen and I was seventeen at the time. We had become good friends over the two week or so span that he was here for rookie camp. After not being asked to join the team quite yet, he returned to Sweden to play there for a year. We were in constant contact during that year, with emails and actual hand written letters and phone calls only on special occasions. When he came back to Canada for prospect camp again summer of 2009, I was waiting to pick him up at the airport and incredibly excited to see him. Our friendship grew from there – never becoming more than friends – when Erik made the team and has remained in Ottawa ever since. That was until I moved to Boston, Massachusetts to attend school at Northeastern University a handful of months ago.

It’s funny how we could keep in contact for a whole summer when he was all the way in Sweden, across the ocean and on another continent, but couldn’t keep in touch when I was only a little over 400 miles south of him. That is not far at all.

It was a couple of minutes before I realized how silent our conversation – or lack thereof – was. Had he said anything else since I zoned out into my own thoughts? Or was he just comfortable knowing that I was still on the line?

“Erik?” I asked, trying to start up the conversation. I knew he was still there, I could hear him breathing, but I wanted to make sure he was actually listening and didn’t fall asleep or something. I heard him sniffle a bit before he replied. Had he been crying?

“Please don’t be mad at me, Beck. I’m so sorry I never called. I need you right now and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you were mad at me,” he rambled on. His Swedish accent was coming out more than normal, the way it always did when he was upset.

“I’m not mad,” I started before getting cut off.

“But you have every right to be. I went into a slump when you left, and talking to you only made it worse. I didn’t know how hard it was going to be without you; how much I relied on you to just be there for me.”

“I’m always here for you, Erik, that will never change.” By this time, I had walked back over to my bed and curled back into a ball underneath my covers. I heard him sniffling again. My heart nearly broke in two when he let out a desperate sigh. “Hun, what’s wrong?”

“Can you come home?”

If my heart wasn’t broken before, it sure as hell was now. Never have I ever heard this man beg. After listening to him speak in a whisper – scared his voice would crack if he talked any louder – with so much hopelessness in his voice, I never want to hear him beg again.

It almost didn’t matter why he wanted me home. At this moment, in my mind, I was running around my room and hastily packing a bag. Tossing any article of clothing I could find into my bag while getting sloppily dressed and scurrying out the door. I would run all the way to Ottawa if I had to.

Except I was not doing any of that. I was still curled up in my bed waiting for him to explain himself further.

“Please?” he pleaded no longer holding back. I could hear him choke out a cry on the other end of the line. I could not take it anymore. Tears started to pour over my own eyes and I wasn’t even sure what was going on. All I knew was that this man was basically my second half; his pain was my pain, and this was the most pain I have ever seen him in.

“Yes. Of course I will, Erik. You just need to tell me what’s wrong.”

“She broke it off. She left me.”