Page 121 of The New Guy
“Sure hope you don’t look at your career as a series ofalmosts,” he says. “How many NHL games have you played? Two hundred?”
“Almost three hundred.”
He smiles suddenly. “Dude, that’s arealcareer. There’s guys out there living off the memory of a single season. Or a single game. You are already living the dream. Don’t be so het up about trades that you can’t enjoy it. That’d be a crime.”
I take a sip of my water to cover my reaction, because those truths land hard on me.
Then a waiter appears, setting two loaded plates down in front of us. There’s a burger—with avocado and bacon on it—inside a glossy homemade bun. And a stack of deeply golden hand-cut fries. “Wow. Looks amazing. But I shouldn’t have the bread.”
“Oh, it is.” He picks up his burger immediately. “It’d be a crime not to eat that bun, dude,” he says, reading my mind. “But you do you.”
“Fuck it,” I grumble, picking up the burger and taking a very satisfying bite. Then I shove a fry in my mouth and groan. “God. What makes that taste so good?” It’s more than just a fried potato. It’s heaven.
“Truffle oil,” he says. “I don’t even know what a truffle is. All I know is that I eat these fries a couple times a week.”
“You’re a smart man, O’Doul.”
He laughs. “Hardly. Not even a little. What I am isold, and with age comes wisdom. It’s not the same as intelligence. Wisdom is shit you learn by being around long enough to make a lot of mistakes.”
“Old at thirty-six, huh?”
He points a fry at me. “Trust me. Hockey years are like dog years. That makes me—what’s 36 times 7?”
“Old,” I grunt. “Too hungry for math.”
“It goes by fast, though. Blink, and you’ll be at the final days of your career. That’s why you need to make ’em all count.”
“Yeah, I’m eating fried potatoes. For me, that counts as living.”
He grins. “Good work, kid. I knew you could do it.”
* * *
O’Doul treats me to lunch, and I leave the restaurant feeling shored up and grateful.
The first thing I do as I walk toward home is call Gavin. It goes to voicemail, and my heart plunges.
Shit. I’ve really fucked up now. He’s not even taking my call.
But then my phone rings thirty seconds later. It’s Gavin.
“Hey,” he says as soon as I answer. “I was on a chair at the top of Jordyn’s closet, looking for her extra bathing suits.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I clear my throat. “Let me start over. I want to apologize for running out on you today. That was stupid. I was in a panic over something my dad told me. Trade rumors about me. That’s why Dad wanted me to wait.”
He sucks in his breath. “Why didn’t you justtellme that?”
“Because I let him get into my head. O’Doul just asked me why my father would even tell me something like that. He has to know it would make me crazy, yeah?”
“Heshouldknow,” Gavin agrees. “And if he doesn’t, then he hasn’t really been listening to you, has he?”
Stopping on the sidewalk, I consider the question. “He’s always trying to keep me in line. There’s a reason his ringtone is Under My Thumb.”
“I did notice that,” Gavin says quietly. “You already know his flaws, but you fell for it anyway. He’s got you all twisted up on a rumor.”
This is true. But my father knows a lot, and the crappy things he says are based in reality, even if they’re hard to hear.
“Serious question—does he have to be your agent?” Gavin asks. “What if there were someone else you could talk to about this? Someone with a clear head.”
