Page 101 of I'm Your Guy
Well, fuck. I’d forgotten about this little ritual. I can never figure out what to buy for my millionaire teammates, but I reach into the bowl, anyway, hoping to pull out my own name. That would make things easy.
No such luck. I get Ivan Cockrell, the backup goalie. I know nothing about him, so I guess I’m buying him a nice bottle of scotch.
“Thanks for playing, DiCosta,” Stoney says, turning away, looking ridiculous with his bare ass in the wind. “Don’t forget—there’s a twenty-five-dollar spending cap.”
“Wait, really?” I grumble.
“Yeah, you gotta be creative.”
Great. This will go well. The only thing I know about Cockrell is that he’s a vegetarian. And he’s very bendy, as all goalies are.
I drop my bag in my stall and greet Hessler, who’s lacing up his running shoes beside me. “What’s a good Secret Santa gift? Twenty-five dollar maximum.”
“Fuck if I know.” He shrugs, looking unconcerned. “I drew a support-staff guy, so I can give him comp seats. Problem solved.”
“Unfair.”
“See you on the bikes,” he says, jogging off to warm up.
* * *
It turns out that some physical activity is just what I’d needed. When the game starts, I’m ready. I’m focused, I’m skating well, and we’re beating Montreal.
At the end of the second period, I get an assist, and I hope my mom is watching.
Confession: I hope Carter is watching too.
We all troop back to the locker room to stretch and rehydrate before the third period. “You’re killing it tonight,” Kapski says to me. “Nice and loose.”
“Thanks,” I say, allowing myself a private chuckle. I do feel loose, although I’m smart enough to know that a little sexual gratification didn’t make me into a whole new person.
For once in my life, I let someone see how I really feel about him, and that’s freeing in its own way. There’s at least one person alive who knows all my secrets.
And I like it.
We troop out for the third period, and it starts a little rocky. Newgate is having a rough night. He gets stripped of the puck right after the faceoff. It’s up to me to chase the guy down and knock him off the puck in front of our own net.
“Open the eyes, Newgate!” our goalie yells. “Thirty-eight is up your ass!”
“Sorry,” my teammate mutters at the next line change. “I’m a disaster tonight. I’m all up in my head.”
He does seem like a bit of a mess. “Hey—that’s me on a good day. You’ll muddle through.”
He gives me a grateful stick-tap, and we gulp water before we’re sent out again.
After our win is final, Newgate thanks me again for saving his ass. “Some of us are going out for beers. You in?”
I feel bad for shaking my head. “Not this time. I gotta get home. By the way, thanks for the muffins.”
“That was all Gavin. Catch us next time?”
“Absolutely.”
The truth is I’m eager to go home and see if Carter is there. I have a sinking feeling that he won’t be.
But when I turn onto my street, my Christmas tree is alight in the window. The knot inside my chest loosens as I park the car and hurry up the walk.
I unlock the door and find the living room empty. In the glow of the tree, I kick off my shoes and drop my suit jacket on a chair. Then I tiptoe toward the back of the house, where I find light bleeding from under the guestroom door. I tap on the door with one finger. “Carter? Could I come in for a second?”
