Page 2 of The New Guy
There are plenty of empty seats at the bar, probably because it’s only Tuesday. So I sit down and order a beer from a kind-looking older gentleman. “Should be a good game tonight,” he says. “We’re favored to beat Boston.”
“Awesome,” I say, as I wait for my beer.
I’m not a Brooklyn fan yet, though. I haven’t started the job. Also, it feels disloyal to Eddie. My husband—he died two years ago—was a Boston fan. Big time.
Growing up, I watched a lot of sports, but hockey wasn’t really on my radar. Then I met Eddie, and watching hockey together was part of our courting ritual. We had three great years together, and then he died in an accident at the age of thirty-two.
People always tell me, “You don’t look old enough to have a seven-year-old daughter.” And they’re mostly right. Eddie was nine years older than I was, and he was already a dad when I met him. I never imagined dating a single father of a toddler. It wasn’t on my bucket list.
But Eddie was special, and I fell hard. We watched a lot of TV together at home, because he had a kid to raise.
And thenwehad a kid to raise.
And nowIhave a kid to raise.
I miss him so much. It’s one reason why I applied for a job with the hockey team.Eddie would get a kick out of this, I remember thinking. It was really just a whim.
When they offered me the job, I was floored. Now here I am, on a barstool, hoping I made the right call.
Meanwhile, my beer lands in front of me in a frosty pint glass, and I take a grateful sip. When I glance around the bar, I notice alotof hockey paraphernalia. There’s a signed Brooklyn Bruisers jersey framed at one end of the bar, and a signed Brooklyn Bombshells jersey at the other.
Eddie would get a kick out of that, too. But he’d still root for Boston.
On the screen, Brooklyn has the puck. But not a lot is happening. Nothing good, anyway. Boston is all over them. This is an away game, and the Boston fans are loud.
Not to contradict the bartender, but I’m not sure Brooklyn feels like winning tonight. I guess time will tell.
Just as I’m having this thought, a guy sits down on the stool beside me. Like,rightbeside me, even though there’s a whole row of stools available.
It’s been a million years since I was a single guy sitting alone in a bar. But somehow the old reflexes kick in, and I turn my head to check him out. Andhello. He is a fine specimen. Broad shoulders. Sandy brown hair and deep brown eyes. And a handsome face with the kind of strong, scruffy jaw that might leave beard burns on my thighs.
Whoa. That fantasy escalated quickly. That’s what happens when your dry spell is two years long.
Just as I remember to keep my tongue in my mouth, the hunk slowly cruises me, too. My pulse quickens, and our gazes lock.
“Hi,” I say, because I’m brilliant like that.
He blinks. I swear his eyes dilate, too.
But that’s when the bartender arrives in front of us, and the guy shuts it down so fast that I might already have whiplash.
“Hey, Pete,” he says, his attention fully on the bartender.
“Evening,” Pete returns with a chuckle. “Here to watch the game?”
“Of course. Can I have a lager and my usual?”
“Any time, kid.” Then he turns to me. “Any interest in a menu?”
“Heck yes,” I say. “Let’s have it.”
The older man slides it onto the bar, and I skim the offerings.
My new friend stays quiet until the bartender moves away. “Sorry to crowd you, but you have one of the best seats in the room.”
I almost make a joke about how nice myseatis. Almost. But I rein it in. “You’re not crowding me,” I say instead, my voice carefully neutral. “Any advice on this menu? Looks pretty standard.”
“Sorry, no.” That perfect, scruffy face says. “I always order the same thing. But the guys tell me the burger and the nachos are about as adventurous as you’re supposed to get.”
