Chapter 1
Camille Willems:
“I’m Camille Willems and thank you for tuning into the Canadian National Hockey League,” I repeated in the mirror. I forced a picture perfect smile onto my pink painted lips and straightened my shoulders and pushed out my chest. That’s what men were watching my before and after game time interviews for anyways. They wanted to see their ‘prized hockey star’ interviewed by a blonde bombshell with caked on lipstick, perfect smile, and perky boobs. They didn’t watch the hockey channel interviews to see ‘has been’ Camille Willems, one time Olympic gold medal winner with a ponytail and bare face.
I could hear my producer now, ‘the viewers don’t care if you won a gold medal two years ago at the Olympics, Camille, that’s old news, admirable, but old news. They care about how you look, how white your teeth are, how slim your body is, how bright your clothing is, how happy you look and they like when you flirt with the players. They like watching the show because of your appearance, Camille. They don’t care if you actually know what you’re talking about, they’d rather believe that you don’t, it makes them feel less inferior.’
He wasn’t wrong, in fact he was completely right. Men liked that. Hell, men even wanted that type of woman reporting and interviewing after hockey games.
And I was the perfect reporter for their rating scales, considering that I was local and considering who my father is.
My father is Alexander Willems, yes, you heard that right, the Alexander Willems. The same Alexander Willems who was the captain of Grizzly’s for a decade, the same Alexander Willems that the Grizzly’s paid him an outrageous salary year after year just to keep him, the same Alexander Willems who won two gold medals and one silver medal in the Olympics, the same Alexander Willems who used to score two to three goals each game. Yes, the same Alexander Willems who was considered one of the greatest hockey players in Canadian History.
Men watched my father for his physical talents while they watched me for my physical traits.
I’m sure there’s people out there that would die to be his child, or related to him in any way, while I could care less. I’d rather not have his last name or the association. It all reminds me of one thing and one thing only: my childhood. And I’d rather not think of my childhood or the downfalls of his parenting.
He was a shitty dad, but not in the traditional typical sense. He didn’t beat me or forget to pick me up from school or not feed me or anything like that.
He just pretended like I didn’t exist, like me and my mom did not exist that is.
You see, he left us when I was 7 years old. I guess we weren’t the picture perfect family he had hoped for. He upgraded to a different model: a younger wife who gave him two sons.
I guess he always wanted a boy, you know, that’s the only way to make a ‘mini me’ that has a chance to actually become a ‘real’ hockey player.
You can’t do much with a daughter, it’s just like my producer said, men wanted to see women with makeup and acting all cutesy on television, not actually watch women playing hockey and out-doing men.
He pretty much stopped being present in my life after the year he left. He started to send the Christmas and birthday cards by mail instead of dropping them off in person. He never attended a daddy daughter dance with me (my uncle had to take his place). He never cared about my grades in school. Real ‘Canadian hero’, right?! Ha.
But the real kicker isn’t the lack of care he had in my life, it’s his focus of the only thing he cared about in my life. Hockey. He put me through every camp since he was too busy to train me himself, even though he always had time for my step brothers, and insisted that I go to the Olympics, even though the Olympics is the reason my career came to an abrupt halt.
I won the gold medal, but at what cost? A big cost. My entire future hockey career. I tore a ligament in my ankle which puts me at a disadvantage. So instead of continuing and causing further pain and suffering for an already dwindling hockey career, I decided to take a different avenue: being a hockey reporter.
The gig wasn’t glamorous by any means, but it would do. It paid well and traveling was nice but luckily the other girls and I took turns. The upside was that I still had a career that was hockey related.
I don’t know about you but I absolutely love the smell of fresh ice, especially after the Zamboni cleans it anew and makes it look almost like glass. There’s just something about the sound of sharpened skates on fresh ice, the sound of the puck smacking against the metal edge of the net, and the way the fans go insane after their home team scores a goal.
As much as I hate to admit it, hockey is in my blood. I’d bleed for it, and I have many many times. Just because we’re girls doesn’t mean we don’t like to fight, and I’ve had my fair share of busted lips and bloody noses.
But now my job is a lot different. I’ve traded skates, ice, and fighting for smiles, makeup, and high heels.
I stared at myself in the mirror for a moment longer, heaving in a deep breath before pressing my eyes tightly closed to do some tactical breathing. My coach would always encourage it, it helped lessen the stress and all your worries.
But as I forced my eyes open, I was left with the stress, worries and everything else that plagued my mind. I needed to be perfect on television today, I needed to say all the right things, I needed to giggle at the stupid jokes the players told, I needed to pretend that I liked them and not that I wanted to gag every time their eyes dragged over my body. I needed to compliment their plays and pretend as if I couldn’t have done them better, even though quite frankly, I knew I could have.
Pretending was the worst. It was the most inauthentic you could be, and I hated being inauthentic. If you sucked you sucked, and I wanted to tell them that, but in this job you could do everything but say the truth.
But it wasn’t just that I had to bite my tongue about that, it was also that I had to bite my tongue and pretend that their behavior was okay. And it most certainly was not okay. It was anything but okay. The way their eyes traced the outline of my body with hunger, and their cocky remarks about taking me on a date or asking for my number was so far from okay. But like everything else in this job, I dealt with it because I had to hold myself together due to my name and employment status. I couldn’t embarrass my dad, god forbid his daughter embarrass him even though his sons never ceased not to, and I couldn’t lose my job, it was a great job after all.
So, I pretended because that was the only option that I had.
I adjusted the strands of my blonde curls in front of my body and smoothed down a stray baby hair on the top of my head.
Perfect. I look picture perfect. Painted pink lips, blonde hair curled to perfection, glowing skin but not oily, manicured nails with light pink polish, black eyeliner around my eyes, and the finishing touch: a fuchsia colored dress that literally stuck to my body and accentuated my curves. I looked like a picture perfect Barbie doll. The viewers loved it and so did the players.
I got to my feet as the sound of my nude high heels clinked along the floor and smoothed down my dress.
I could decompress later and write about this all in my journal, I assured myself, as I glanced in my large purse and zipped up my journal from plain view.
Now it’s show time.
