Page 48 of The New Guy
For the first time in forever, I’m the guy the journalists want to talk to. That’s fun.
And when I’m done smiling for the cameras, my dad is already blowing up my phone with voice messages of congratulations.
Also rare. Go me.
But none of it is quite as fun as the text I get from Gavin. It’s a photo of Jordyn jumping up and down in front of the TV screen.I let her stay up late for this. And now you pretty much have to come for dinner tomorrow.
Guess I can afford a few carbs, I reply. As if I’m not desperate to go sit in Gavin’s kitchen while he serves me homemade soup.I’ll bring the drinks.
After I send that, I wonder if it sounds flirty. But it’s too late. I can’t take it back.
It’s just a harmless dinner, right? No reason I shouldn’t go. Just a low-stakes night of breaking my diet, and salivating like a hungry wolf at Gavin.
No problem. I got this.
SIXTEEN
Hudson
The next evening,though, I hesitate in the wine shop. Is sauvignon blanc too much like a date?
Yes, probably.
Hell.
I turn around and go to the corner store instead. Because this is Brooklyn, there are a million beers to choose from. I grab a four-pack of Japanese beer, and then a bottle of fancy soda for Jordyn. It’s a low-key, friendly offering.
That’s fine, right?I wonder as I tap my credit card.
This kind of overthinking is new to me. I’ve kept my life simple for the last five years. No entanglements. Just hockey. But now Gavin has me all twisted up inside, which is weird because he and I are not a thing.
We can’t be a thing.
My subconscious feels otherwise, though. Whenever I hear his voice, I gravitate toward it. And when he smiles at me, a nameless energy bounces off the walls of my empty heart.
I need to shut it down. Instead, I’m going to dinner at his place.
When I tap on their door, Jordyn comes running. I hear her pounding feet, and then the door is flung open. “Hudson Newgate! You came!”
My smile is automatic. Nobody has ever been that happy to see me. “Hi, kiddo. Thank you for inviting me.”
“I’ll get my hockey stick,” she says, bolting away from the door again.
I let myself in. These apartments have open living spaces, so Gavin is just around the corner at the far side of the room, stirring something on the stove. “I brought beer,” I announce.
“Awesome.” He turns around and hits me with a smile. And, yup, I feel it like a throb in my chest. “Come on in.”
I navigate around a sofa—gray, with blue and orange pillows, one of which is shaped like a cat. There are side tables and lamps in several shapes and colors. There are framed photos on the wall, and a rug underfoot. A coffee table is covered with math homework, a handful of pencils, and an eraser in the shape of a unicorn.
“Wow, your apartment looks so much more lived-in than mine.”
Gavin laughs. “Is that code for ‘messy?’ We’re kind of crammed in here. It was hard moving out of a three bedroom house.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know that.” He’s dropping spinach leaves from a salad spinner into the pot. “This will be ready in, like, ten minutes.”
“Can I do anything? Not that I cook. But I can set a table as well as the next guy.”
