Page 132 of The New Guy
I happen to know that Colorado is hosting Chicago tonight. I may have checked Colorado’s game schedule. For science.
Which means I also learned that Colorado will be visiting Brooklyn next month for a game.
If Reggie is still in town, maybe I’ll ask her to babysit that night. I’ll go out to a bar nowhere near the stadium and get good and drunk.
My child disappears into her room, emerging a minute later with her iPad. She’s googled:How to watch Hudson play hockey.
And Google, being shrewd to the point of being creepy, has promptly responded with a link to the Cougars’ schedule, followed by a link to the ESPN+ subscription page.
“That will cost money,” I tell her as she’s clicking the link.
“Daddy, it saysfree two-week trial.”
“But that’s how they hook you,” I grumble. “They want you to forget about the end of the two weeks, so they can charge your credit card.”
She looks thoughtful. “We could do that thing with your phone that reminds us about doctor’s appointments? And then they won’t charge you the money, right?”
Kids are way too smart these days.
You have to learn to say no, I’d told Hudson. And yet here I am typing my Amex number into the subscription site.
Why? Self-torture, apparently. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Jordyn finds the game in the hockey directory, and when the camera sweeps Colorado’s bench, I lean forward, looking for his rugged face.
Jordyn squeals, and there he is, right in front of us in HD, wearing an unfamiliar blue helmet and a serious game-day expression.
My heart contracts with longing. Then an unfamiliar coach taps him on the shoulder, and he vaults over the wall for a shift.
“Whoa,” Jordan says, because Hudson skates like he’s on fire. He’s fast and aggressive as he halts the progress of a Chicago forward and strips him of the puck. “Hudson is angry tonight. Can I make popcorn?”
“Sure, baby.”
She heads for the kitchen, finds a bag of microwave popcorn, rips off the plastic and puts it into the microwave.
When it’s done, I shove some into my mouth when she offers it. But I don’t leave the couch until intermission.
He’s magic. I’d forgotten. Or maybe I’d wanted to forget. But that guy on the screen is at the top of his game.
After grabbing a beer, I find my phone and google his stats. In just four games, he’s got two assists and a goal.
I smile in spite of myself. I’m still angry, damn it. But also joyous. Because I know how badly Hudson wants to prove himself. Look at him go.
As the second period starts, I keep googling. I look up his teammates. A couple of them were there for at least five years. So Hudson probably knows them. Maybe they’re friends.
I hope he has friends.
“The coach looks nicer than our coach,” Jordyn decides, her eyes glued to the TV. She has popcorn in her hair. “What’s his name?”
So I google Colorado’s coach. “It’s Clay Powers. He’s only thirty-eight years old—the youngest head coach in the league.”
“He’s cute,” she says. “I like his face.”
It is a nice face, I guess. And he wears the heck out of a suit. Just for kicks, I googlehottest NHL coachand his photo comes up immediately.
Figures.
The whistle blows, and the camera pans the bench again. I scrutinize Hudson’s teammates, looking for any clues of what it’s like there, and whether he’s happy. There’s a young equipment manager behind the bench. And a trainer in a blue quarter-zip jacket.
Of course there’s a trainer. But Hudson used todatea trainer in Colorado, didn’t he? Maybethattrainer.
