Page 17 of The New Guy
Castro’s eyes widen sharply, and I brace myself for an awkward conversation. Or worse—maybe he won’t want me to work on his cranky back.
“No shit?” he asks. But then he suddenly clasps my shoulder. “Man, I am really sorry to hear that.”
I feel myself relax. “Thank you. Lie on your stomach?” He rolls, and I begin by placing my hands on his shoulders.
“You know,” he says, his voice slightly muffled. “There’s rules for when someone shares that, right? You’re not supposed to say—oh, the same thing happened to me. Because they usually follow that shit up with—my cat died last month.”
I let out a bark of surprised laughter. Because thatisa thing people do. “Yeah, grief comparisons can be weird.” And this conversation did not go in the direction I was expecting.
“Truth. But—just saying?” He raises himself on an elbow and looks over his shoulder at me. “When I was still in high school, my girlfriend died in a car crash. I know it’s not the same thing, but it messed me up real good for a few years.”
“Wow, I bet it did.” I give him a nudge and he reclines again.
I work carefully on the muscles of his upper and mid-back, until I find a concentration of tightness. “This is the spot, right?”
“You know it.” He’s quiet a moment as I coax those muscles to loosen up. Then he sighs. “Humans aren’t wired to look at their comfortable lives and understand that it can all be snatched away at a moment’s notice. And when it happens, we can’t even process it.”
“The back pain is that bad?”
He snorts. “No, but your jokes are.”
“Ooh, burn.”
He shakes his head. “I used to do that, too. Always making a joke to get through it. Two years isn’t very long, is it?”
“Nope,” I admit. “Once a week I think of something and I’m like—oh, I should tell Eddie.”
He nods. He gets it. Our club has a small membership, but we recognize our members.
“Welcome to Brooklyn,” he says. “May your luck turn around. Mine did.”
“Hey, you never know. I’ve always been an optimist.”
But some days are easier than others.
* * *
“Hey, I’m heading over to set up at the stadium in a bit,” Henry says on Monday. “But could you grab Newgate? He hasn’t come into the training room.”
Yikes. “I’m happy to try. He’s been, uh, hard to track down.” I’m about ready to put his picture on a WANTED sign in the weight room.If you see this man, report him to the training office. May be armed and dangerous with a bad attitude…
“Make sure you grab him before all the players head home to rest.”
“Will do!” I say with more charm than actual confidence.
But, honestly, this avoidance has gone on long enough. I’m not about to let this arrogant man make me look bad to my new boss.
The minute Henry leaves, I march out of my treatment room and go looking for Newgate. I find him in the locker room, chest deep in the ice bath, a grimace on his face.Finally. A captive audience.
Also—why do irritating people have to be so hot? His chest is a work of art, even with goose bumps all over it.
“Excuse me, Mr. Newgate?” I ask politely, in a tone that suggests we have never had our tongues in each other’s mouths. “I should see you before you go. Let’s follow up on that hip.”
He looks up at me like he’s tasted something sour. “Sorry, can’t. After this I’ve got a video session.”
“Right.” It comes out sounding bitter. “Another time then.”
I want to scream into the void. But I leave the room instead.
