Page 134 of The New Guy
She arranged for a moving company to ship me the rest of my belongings. She arranged for a charity to pick up my Brooklyn furniture, and mailed me a donation form for tax purposes. Erasing my life in New York was surprisingly easy for her. A few phone calls, and it’s like I was never there.
Gavin probably has a new neighbor already.
I climb the carpeted stairs and drop my gym bag inside the bedroom. I hang up my suit jacket and tie in the closet, and change into shorts and a T-shirt. When I put my phone on the charger, it lights up with a notification. And I freeze. It’s the encrypted app that I used to chat with Gavin.
And there’s a new message.
Even though I’ve made it a point not to reach out to him, I’m not a strong enough man to resist this. I grab the phone and log in so fast that I’m in danger of breaking the thing.
I miss him so much. It takes all my focus not to think about him when I’m alone.
The first message makes me smile. The second one causes a burning sensation behind my eyes. It kills me to think that I hurt him. He has every right to be mad.
But somehow he’s still buoyant, too. Still Gavin. I can hear his voice when he tells me the coach is hot.
Which he would be, I guess? If he wasn’t my coach, and a dozen years older than me.
The last message, though, requires a reply.
Hey. If you were watching, I’m glad I didn’t stink it up tonight. Is it horrible that I’ve wondered if you watched? Not that I deserve it.
I’m really sorry for the way I left. I didn’t know how to handle it. I still don’t. The truth is that I was afraid of what would happen if I let you touch me. Like I might have broken in half.
I was just trying to hold myself together so I could get into that car.
And I had to get into the car.
I bet you wish you never went into the tavern that fateful night last winter.
I’m sorry.
PS: The team trainer here is a stranger. And he couldn’t hold a candle to you.
PPS: Dicks are nice. That’s not an insult. We’ve been over this.
After I hit send, I put the phone down. I’m still so confused. I wish I had behaved differently. And yet the outcome would be the same.
Our story got cut short. That’s not my fault. My biggest sin was believing it could have ended differently.
I can’t believe I have to play Brooklyn next month. Just thinking about it makes me want to hurl. I’ll spend the whole trip wondering where Gavin is, and whether he’s thinking about me, too.
This anxiety spiral is cut short only when the doorbell rings downstairs. Which is just weird. Nobody even knows my address. Must be a food delivery gone wrong.
I walk downstairs and open the front door, and find a woman standing there under my porch light. A redhead in business casual with a blazer and a pin on the lapel that readsEither You Like Hockey or You Are Wrong.
It’s Bess Beringer, my new agent. “Hi,” I say stupidly. “I didn’t know you were in town.”
“That’s because you boogied out of the stadium so fast that I missed you. Can I come in?”
“Of course.” I open the door a little wider. “Sorry. I would have stayed if I’d known.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I don’t travel that much these days, but I had to go to Vegas for a negotiation, so I thought I’d pop by and see you play. What a game! You must be thrilled. Thought you might be out celebrating with the guys.”
“Not much of a drinker,” I say by way of explanation. “Can I get you a soda?”
“Sure,” she says. “That would be great.”
I head to the kitchen and rustle up a couple of seltzers with lime. When I return, Bess is admiring my fireplace. “Nice house they set you up with here.”
