Page 30 of The New Guy
“The Bombshells are big fans of yours now.” He chuckles. “I’m a little worried they’ll try to poach you. And if their trainer has any more issues on game night, I’m sure you’ll be their first call.”
I inwardly wince, because I don’t need any more babysitting emergencies in my life. “Thanks, Henry.”
“But you kind of put Gavin on the spot,” Hudson says suddenly. “Maybe give him some more warning next time? He had to trust a bunch of hockey players to watch his kid. We did an excellent job, if I do say so myself. But Gavin was just lucky we were there. Fact is, as the new guy, he knows he has to say yes, even when it’s inconvenient.”
“Oh, shit.” Henry’s eyes jump to mine. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I know you’re not supposed to work nights, but I kinda forgot why.”
“It’s all right,” I tell him. “I won’t always be able to say yes, but it isn’t because I don’t want to.”
“Yeah, I get that.” He rubs his chin. “I put a couple of road trips in your contract, though. Will that be a problem?”
I shake my head. “My sister can cover those road trips if we plan them in advance. It’s cool. I know you need a chance to be home once in a while, too.”
He grins. “My wife is pregnant, and there hasn’t been anyone else that I trust for game night in a while. But when I interviewed you, I thought I might not miss the birth of my children after all. We’ve had trouble finding talent in the training room lately. Now the Bombshells are, like,find us another Gavin.” He throws up his hands. “All suggestions welcome.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
I’d been out of the workforce a couple years, so this kind of praise is very encouraging.
Meanwhile Hudson has slipped out of the treatment room while Henry and I were talking. So I don’t get another chance to ask about that grimace.
Please be okay, I inwardly pray. Hudson needs a break.
Maybe it’s selfish, but the dude has a really nice smile. I’d just like to see it again sometime.
TEN
Hudson
“Inhale to plank position.Full breath in plank,” says Ari, the team’s yoga teacher. “On your next exhale, lead with your hips into a downward dog.”
Lead with your hips. My eyes slide sideways to find another pair of hips on a mat a few yards away from me. That same pair appeared in my dreams last night. And the night before that.
Gavin has invaded our yoga class.
I shouldn’t sayinvaded. It’s a perk of working with the team. But it isn’t making my life any easier.
Before this year, I was damn good at focusing only on hockey. Now my focus has broadened to both hockey and lusty fantasies. I dream about him. And at night, when I’m lying in bed, I sometimes hear the muffled sound of his voice coming through the walls of our apartment building. I’m pretty sure his bedroom is on the opposite side of the wall from mine.
He’s everywhere except—thank Christ—on the ice, or on the road. I still have my brain when I’m skating. And when we travel, I don’t see him for days at a time. It’s easier knowing I won’t round a corner in our gym and find him laughing with Castro or Tank as he tapes up a knee or an ankle with strong, competent hands.
“Plant your left foot forward on the mat and rise to warrior two.” Ari brings us through a series of lunging poses.
The class is crowded, and the room is pleasantly warm. That’s kind of the point, I’ve learned. Yoga makes a guy extra limber.
I’d never done much yoga before coming to Brooklyn. But I actually like it. It’s physical, but it’s also a mental refuge. And a bonding moment with the team, and with yourself.
“There are no winners at yoga,” Ari said during my first class. “And no losers. We aren’t even competing against ourselves. I don’t care how your last yoga class went. I don’t care if you ever nail the half moon pose. The past and the future don’t matter—on the mat, there is only the present moment. We are here to observe ourselves without judgment.”
I kind of loved hearing this. There is no other moment in my week when winning doesn’t matter. I’d honestly forgotten you could think that way.
But Gavin must like yoga, too. Lately he’s always here, dressed in shorts and a fitness shirt that hugs his body in every twist and lunge. And sometimes rides up when he folds his body forward.
My mental database on Gavin now includes high definition imagery of his V-cut, and the way his thigh muscles flex when he bends. I know that his body hair is blond and soft-looking, and that his cheeks get red when he sweats.
It is slowly, privately killing me.
The class ends with some hip opening stretches and then a few minutes in Savasana, which I’m pretty sure means “corpse.” You’re supposed to use those final minutes to breathe deeply and appreciate that you’re still alive. And to stay focused on the present.
