Page 47 of The New Guy
“It turned out to be nothing,” I say, forcing a grin.
“Glad to hear it,” he says with a polite tone. “Have a good game.”
“You too,” I say stupidly.
He leaves, and I stretch my hamstrings. But I’m grumpy now. No—it’s worse than that. I’m furious.This could be a big season for you. That’s a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one.
This was just a drive-by mind fuck, right? I came out to that guy at twenty, back when the earth was green and I thought I had a great life in Colorado.
And he shipped my ass across the country for it.
Anger fizzes inside me as I finish stretching. But that’s actually a good thing. Now I’m feeling the need to smash Colorado. And their star forward—Kapski—is someone I used to train with, so at least I know some of his tricks.
When game time comes, I stare Kapski down before the puck drops. And once we’re in motion, I stake him out, doing my best to block his sight-lines before he’s even got the puck.
There’s lots of ways to be a defender. There are defensive defenders—the classic shot-blockers. O’Doul is that kind of player—always near the blue line, preventing the opponent from getting its way. Then there are offensive-defenders. Our man Tankiewicz fits that bill—he’s a flashy player who breaks formation to set up scoring chances wherever he can.
In the middle you’ve got what we call a two-way defender. That’s me—I play wherever I’m needed.
But not tonight. I’m kicking it old school. Colorado is a good team, but they’re awfully reliant on Kapski. Most of their goals go through him.
So I set myself up like a cork in that bottle—a stopper. The human incarnation ofno. It’s not flashy, and it’s probably not fun to watch. I’m just a dude getting in another dude’s way every time we’re both on the ice.
Which is a lot of the time. Coach seems to like my strategy, and he keeps sending me on shifts with Kapski. I skate hard, and with the kind of tunnel vision that makes the first period fly by.
Pretty soon the buzzer sounds and we’re clomping back toward the dressing room.
“Newgate! Over here,” Henry says, waving me toward the table.
“The hip’s okay,” I insist. But I’m hella winded.
“Dude, I know. But drink this.” He thrusts a bottle of energy drink at me. “We’ll have to change your nickname. To, like, Iron Man. Those are some of your longest shifts this season.”
I didn’t even notice that, but I guzzle some of Henry’s magic juice anyway. He makes his own blend for us.
“Good work, son,” Coach Worthington says as I mop sweat out of my eyes. “If you keep it up for another period, guy’s gonna snap. Just make sure you fall on your left side when it happens.”
I snort. “Will do.”
Coach was joking, but he’s basically right. I go after Kapski in the same hellacious way during the second period, and eventually Colorado’s game breaks down. One of them trips me, and the ref calls it, giving us a power play. And the second it’s over, another one of them slashes Castro with his stick.
Another power play, and Brooklyn scores.
As Trevi celebrates his goal, I skate by to check out Coach Powers’ face on the visitors’ bench. He looks like he wants to shake his own players.
I give him a big smile, which he probably doesn’t even notice. But I’m having fun.
The third period unrolls like a dream. Colorado continues to spiral, their play riddled with errors. And I manage a beautiful stick-lift on Kapski while he’s trying to receive a pass. It’s exactly the same move I did on Drake this morning.
And it works the same way. I nab the puck and execute a fast turn. Everyone in the stadium expects me to pass, because I’ve spent the whole game playing a sturdy but dull defensive game.
But rules are made to be broken. I zip around Kapski, elude a startled defender and fire the puck toward the net. It sails in between the goalie’s legs.
I’ve five-holed him. The lamp lights, and it feels a little surreal.
It also feels fucking great.
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