Page 62 of The New Guy
“What? You don’t like it? Can’t handle the tension?”
He laughs. “I like it fine. But—and I’m surprised you didn’t notice this—it’s a show about carbs. Not really your thing.”
“I like carbs. I just don’teatcarbs. Besides—it’s not about the sugar and flour. It’s the thrill of sportsmanship. Risk and reward.”
“Okay, dude.” He laughs. “Let’s watch some Brits bake.”
The show comes on, and I set the puzzle down and kick my feet up onto the coffee table like Gavin’s. The theme of this first episode is fresh fruit. We watch as all ten of the new contestants decide what to make.
“Okay, the chunky guy is already my favorite,” I declare. “He sounds rough, but I think he’s a ringer.”
“Interesting,” Gavin says. “Who do you think goes home first?”
“The fussy one with the curly hair. She talks a big game, but there’s a lack of mental toughness. I bet she cracks under pressure.”
Gavin snorts with laughter. “You are hilarious.”
“I’m just observant. And this show is a lot like my life, you know? One fuck-up and it’s all over. Bye bye.”
He settles in to see if I’m right—but I will be. Someone makes a cherry clafoutis. Someone else bakes a complicated lemon tart.
And the curly-haired fussbudget? She panics when her strawberry torte starts browning too quickly around the edges. She pulls it out of the oven and tries using foil to deflect some of the heat. But then the edges of the foil catch the strawberry goo in the middle, so she has trouble removing it afterward.
I sling my arm over the back of the sofa and palm the back of Gavin’s neck. If I can’t make out with him, at least I can touch him a little.
“Wow,” Gavin says, leaning into my touch. “You called it. I don’t think she’ll make the cut.”
“Even if she survives this one, it won’t last,” I say with the confidence of an armchair quarterback. “She doesn’t have what it takes. But hey,” I say, changing the subject. “You didn’t tell me why you were in a bad mood tonight. What’s up with that?”
His smile is a gift that I don’t deserve. The weird thing about Gavin is that he seems to enjoy my grumpy, overly analytical personality. “Honestly I don’t even remember.”
That’s probably not true. But I don’t get a chance to prod him because my phone starts ringing loudly with “Under My Thumb.” And even though I don’t want to speak to my dad right now, I answer it by accident because I’m in a mad rush to make the ringing stop. “Hello, Dad?” I turn to Gavin and mouthSorry.
He pauses the show.
“Hey, you made it home? Good work today. I wanted to talk to you about skating coaches for this summer. I got three or four ideas.”
I make what is probably an audible, rude noise. “I’m sorry, we can’t have this conversation right now. I need some downtime.”
“But schedules fill up, Hudson. If you want the best of the best—if you want tobethe best of the best—”
“Tomorrow,” I insist, cutting him off. “Or the next day. Promise.”
“I’ve booked you a spot with that conditioning coach in L.A. He’s really doing some interesting stuff with isotonic—”
“Dad.” I cut him off. “I’m spending some time with a friend right now, so I can’t talk.”
“What kind of friend?” he asks pointedly.
Fuck. I glance at Gavin, and his eyes are wide. He can hear this conversation, through no fault of his own.
It would be easy enough to lie, I guess.Just a teammate. Hanging out. He’s going through a hard time. But I can’t do that to Gavin. It’s bad enough that I pretend at the practice facility that we’re just buds.
“I’m seeing someone,” I say to my father. “It’s casual, but I can’t talk right now.”
“What kind ofsomeone?”
“That’s private,” I say quietly.
