Page 11 of The New Guy
It’s a nice arrangement, even if the place will be a little crowded.
Alone with my thoughts, I lock the front door and tuck myself into bed. I stare at my unfamiliar ceiling and listen to the sounds of New York City beyond these walls.
It occurs to me, as I grow drowsy, that my bedroom shares a wall with Hudson Newgate’s apartment.
I don’t know the layout of his place, but it’s conceivable that we are lying only a few feet away from each other right now.
Just not in the way I’d imagined.
FOUR
Hudson
As I wipedown the weight bench for my teammate, my phone starts singing “Under My Thumb.”
Shit.
“Whose ringtone is that?” Drake asks with a snicker. “Your dad’s?”
“Good guess. I’d better get it.” My dad is also my agent. And he doesn’t like to be ignored.
“Go ahead,” says Drake. “You aren’t supposed to spot me anyway.”
This is also true, if overly cautious. Nobody wants my hip inflamed before I can skate again. As my phone continues to play The Rolling Stones, I walk into the corridor for a little privacy. “Hey, Dad,” I say, answering when I’m out of earshot.
“Hudson, hey!” His voice is full of jocular enthusiasm that his other clients seem to love. Today, it just makes me tired. “How’s the hip?”
“Better,” I tell him. As if any other answer would be acceptable.
“You taking good care of yourself? Physical therapy? Good nutrition?”
“Yessir.”
“Getting lots of sleep?”
“Yes,” I lie. But it’s not for lack of trying. I’ve spent the last two nights staring at the ceiling, wishing I could sleep on my side. And, fine, thinking about my neighbor. Wondering who he is, and what he thinks of me and my freak-out the other night.
I haven’t run into him, though. Not on the sidewalk, or in the stairwell. And not here in the team headquarters.
But that’s my fear. Our apartments are the only two on our floor. And billionaire couple Nate and Rebecca Kattenberger own the building—as well as the hockey team. So either Gavin or his sister must be a new hire.
Although the job could be anywhere in the Kattenberger empire. They own several companies as well as two hockey teams.
If there’s a God in heaven, I’ll never see him at work.
“You feel ready for tonight’s game?” my father asks.
Here we go. “I’m not playing tonight, Dad.”
“What? Why?” he barks. “They shouldn’t overlook you like this! I'm going to put in a call to Karl…”
“Dad,don’t. I mean—you don’t have to.” I close my eyes and regroup. It's rare for me to push back against the steamroller of Derek Newgate, and it has to be done delicately. “Coach spoke to both the specialist and the athletic trainer this morning. You don't need to worry. He’s on top of this.”
“Hmm.” He mulls this over.
And I wait, like a good son.
My father is a two-time Stanley Cup winning veteran of hockey. And now a very in-demand agent. If he ranked the value of his clientele, I might not even make the top twenty. He knows everyone in hockey, including my coach. They were teammates at some point. He’s well liked, and Coach would probably laugh off his invasive phone call.
