Page 127 of The New Guy
“Let’s get you settled,” she says, exiting the car. “You have a meeting with Coach Powers at seven p.m., sharp. He’s staying late for you, so there’s no time to waste.”
I climb robotically out of the car and then extract my luggage from the back.
The woman is already unlocking the front door with a code with precise taps of her index finger. She’s in shiny heels and a skirt with those pleats that look like an accordion fold.
I search my memory for her name, and come up blank. Leila? Lilah? It’s something with an L. I’ve barely said four words to her for the past hour. Numb guys aren’t great with conversation.
Nonetheless, I troop up the stairs and follow her into the house. It’s surprisingly nice, with high ceilings, a stone fireplace, a tastefully casual L-shaped sofa, and a thick rug on the floor of the living area.
Her heels click on the wood floors as she heads for the granite and steel kitchen. “I’m writing down the front door code here. But it’s not hard to remember—1979, the year the team joined the NHL.”
“1979,” I repeat dutifully. “Thank you…” I clear my throat, and it’s suddenly obvious that I’ve forgotten her name. “…For all your help.”
She turns to me with a stern expression. “It’sLiana. I know trades are disorienting, Mr. Newgate. But you do have a meeting in…” She checks her smart watch. “One hour and fifty minutes. It’s a ten minute drive to the facility. Do you know where to find it?”
“Yes. But I don’t have a car.”
She marches to the front window and points outside. “That blue Toyota SUV is also rented to you on a week by week basis. You will need to sign the short term lease agreement immediately, so we don’t run afoul of the salary cap.”
“Right, Liana. Thank you.”
“Let me show you the kitchen,” she says, beckoning me toward the back, as if I couldn’t find it myself.
She’s a little terrifying. But at least she’s snapped me out of my stupor. I follow her through an arched doorway into a kitchen done up in wood and granite. “Look,” she commands. Then she opens a cabinet that turns out to be a fully stocked refrigerator. “I wasn’t informed of any dietary restrictions, so I went with your basic Whole Foods assortment. This should get you through for a few days until you get your feet on the ground.”
I blink at a banquet of high protein and high fiber choices. Salads and meats and an entire roasted chicken. Fruits and vegetables. Eggs. Bottled seltzer. “Thank you,” I say again, as heat creeps up my neck.
This is not how trades usually work. I’m always stumbling around a hotel room, clutching the business card of a real estate broker and wondering what just hit me.
“Breathe, Mr. Newgate. Then put your stuff upstairs and get to the coach’s office.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Here’s the car key. Your new address is on this keychain.” She hands me the fob. “What’s the door code?”
“1979,” I answer dutifully.
“Good work. See you at seven.” Her heels click across the floor again as she lets herself out.
When the door closes, I go back into the living room, grab my bags and carry them upstairs.
One room holds a king-sized bed made up in white linens. I drop my bags on the floor and contemplate a face-plant onto the bed. Fuck the meeting. Fuck everything.
But I don’t do it. If I lie down on that bed, all I’ll do is brood. I’ll picture Gavin following me out the front of our building. I didn’t kiss him goodbye. I didn’t even shake his hand.
Always the braver man, he’d followed me outside anyway. He’d watched as I’d tossed my luggage into the taxi’s trunk, and then climbed into the back seat.
I’d raised a hand in a wave, which must have seemed cruel to him. But it was all I was capable of at the time.
My last view of Brooklyn was the devastation he wasn’t afraid to wear on his face.
* * *
At one minute before seven, I approach the players’ entrance with a kind of sick déjà vu.
Once upon a time I felt so proud to walk through these fucking doors. I thought I had the world hanging off the end of my dick.
Now I just feel tired. I’m too old to start over. And yet I don’t have a choice.
