Page 9 of I'm Your Guy
“It’s, uh, empty,” I say, resigned to talking to him. “No furniture.”
“Damn, really? Moving truck is late?”
“Nah, I don’t own anything. When I moved out here, I rented a furnished unit in a new complex. You know—the model unit that they show people. And there I stayed.”
Newgate nods with understanding. “So you need to do some shopping. Furniture takes a while to show up, too.”
“Does it?” Fuck.
“As the guy who used to get traded every year, this is actually my area of expertise. What you need to do is choose the items they stock, not the custom finishes. You gotta call and ask, though. On furniture websites, they’ll show you three colors of a couch, or whatever, but only one of them has a short lead time.”
Hell. “So this is a time suck, is what you’re saying?”
“Sad but true. And then there’s delivery—that’s another nightmare. They give you a window of, like, six hours. And they expect you to sit at home and wait for it.”
“No way,” I grumble. “No can do.”
“Yeah, with our schedule, you’ll have to hire someone for that. Unless the stars line up just right. Maybe Gavin could help let delivery guys in.”
When he mentions his boyfriend, I turn my head to study him. As I sometimes do.
Hudson used to be just another teammate. He’s a solid guy and a hell of a player, like a lot of our crew.
But a year ago, he did something that absolutely blew my mind. On a road trip, he gathered us together and came out to the whole team, including management. He just stood there in a crowded room and referred to himself as “the only bisexual man I can name in pro hockey.”
I don’t think I slept for three days after that.
Ever since, I find myself watching him. Not in a sexual way—I’m not attracted to him. It’s more like I’m fascinated. Here’s a living, breathing defenseman who had fourteen goals last season, and he goes home at night to a boyfriend.
It’s like Stoney with the burning sage—I never knew that was a thing. Newgate blew up my brain, and then blew it up a second time when he brought Gavin and their little girl to the coach’s preseason barbecue three months ago.
“This is my boyfriend, Gavin,” he’d said, laying a hand casually on the other man’s arm. As if it was the easiest thing in the world.
I’d stared. Sometimes I still do it. Like right now. Hudson is still talking to me, and I haven’t been listening.
“Gavin works most days until two o’clock. But usually, he’s home after that. Or he can be.”
“That’s a really nice offer,” I manage. “Let me see what I can find to buy, and then I’ll ask the store how delivery works.”
“Cool,” he says. “Moving is the worst. I’d bring you a casserole, or whatever it is neighbors do. But cooking isn’t really my thing.”
“Think you can let that slide.”
“Maybe Gavin and I should bring over some beers one night when we’re not on the road.”
“Sweet,” I say. “Better wait until I get a sofa, though.”
“Deal.”
Then we both increase the resistance on our bikes and pedal like hellions.
* * *
When gametime comes, it’s a slog. Whatever advantage we were supposed to carry into the matchup looks shaky by the end of the first period. Carolina is up 1-0, and Coach Powers is pissed.
“This is your ice. A mediocre team is running you all over it. Turn the dial up and bring out the heat. They got one fucking goal, and now you need to show up and answer for it. Stoney, where’s the chaos? They aren’t afraid enough. And DiCosta—”
Fuck.
