Page 44 of The New Guy
A sugar high is always followed by a crash. Every time. Last night we shared a taxi home in the wee hours, sitting a respectful distance apart in the back seat, both of us groggy from sleeping on the jet. With the driver right there, we weren’t about to discuss what happened.
Upon arrival, we’d carried our luggage upstairs in companionable silence. When we reached the second floor, he’d said, “I had fun.” And it had sounded so final. Like his own sugar crash had already set in.
“Yeah, same,” I’d whispered.
He’d cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t, uh, go there again, though. I can’t make a habit of it.”
“I know,” I’d said quickly. “I get it. My life is complicated, too.” My job security is more perilous than his. If someone in the organization didn’t like the idea of the trainer banging their athlete? I’d be jobless before I could even blink.
So that was it. One really awesome night, followed by this hungover feeling.
It’s not guilt, exactly. I’m certain that Eddie—if heaven is real—had been cheering me on the other night.
Though I still feel hollow. I finally did the scary work of making an effort to connect with someone. But I chose a guy who can never love me back.
Plus, there’s the sinking realization that the world is full of guys who can never love me back. Because they’re not interested or straight or closeted or emotionally unavailable or kid-haters or commitment-phobes. I could go on and on. So many reasons.
Even when I was a young punk at twenty, I knew that Eddie’s love was a miracle. When any two people find each other like that, it’s not merely special—it’s magic.
In my gut, I believe that I used up my lifetime allotment of magic. Nobody will ever make me feel that special again. I just hope I did the same for him. God knows I tried, and not a day went by when I didn’t remind him how I felt.
Whatever was going through his mind that day when he was T-boned at a stop sign, he must have known I loved him.
On that sad thought, I head to work.
FIFTEEN
Hudson
MARCH
It’s noteasy to steal the puck from Neil Drake during a scrimmage. But no player is infallible. At just the right moment, I use my stick to lift his, spoiling the pass he’s trying to catch, and flicking the puck away to Trevi.
Trevi shoots, and it goes into the net.
I laugh. Drake curses, and then high-fives me anyway.
Coach blows the whistle. “All right. Good work. See you in the tape room in forty-five minutes.”
We all skate for the exits. It’s only ten-thirty in the morning, and we’re on a game day schedule—a morning skate at the practice facility, followed by a strategy meeting. Then a nap at home, a late lunch or an early dinner, whatever you want to call it. Then it’s off to the stadium for a home game against Colorado tonight.
This will be my third game since our Florida trip eight days ago. My hip is holding up. And so are my spirits.
It’s weird, but I feel like a different man after my night with Gavin. Maybe that sounds dramatic, but it’s true.
My life hasn’t changed at all. I’m still a second line athlete battling every day for success and recognition. I still get up early and work hard and avoid carbs. I still go to bed alone every night.
But I feel different. As if I went on vacation for the first time in years, and suddenly remembered that life isn’t always a grind. And maybe this part sounds corny, but I feelseen. Like there’s one person in this building who really knows me.
That’s one more than there used to be. It helps, and I couldn’t even say why.
Whistling, I shower quickly. And while my body is still warm and limber, I head into the training room. Both Henry and Gavin are on duty, but Henry waves me over first.
And I’m actually disappointed. Gavin is my go-to these days. He always puts a little extra effort into keeping me supple. These days he has to treat myotherhip, because I’ve tended to overcompensate with it by favoring my right one.
“Hey, Newgate,” he says cheerfully. He gives me a smile and then goes back to cautiously trimming tape away from Trevi’s ankle. “I heard you and Castro had a high-stakes ping-pong battle last night.”
“That’s right.” I’d gone out to the bar for once with my teammates. “Turns out my backhand has really improved this year, and Castro couldn’t keep up.”
