Page 66 of The New Guy
“But what if he’s wrong? What if Brooklyn isn’t like my old team?” For some reason, I’m full of word vomit tonight. “Maybe five years is enough time to change the world a little. Maybe nobody would give a fuck? There must besomepart of you that thinks I’m just a fucking coward.”
“You arenota bleeping coward,” he says in a low voice.
I snort. “Let me ask you this—has anyone in our locker room ever given you a hard time for being queer?”
“You know they haven’t.” He says quietly. “But you’ve been burned before. And even if the world has changed, there would still be a big, splashy story about you. And afterthat, you’re still not done. You’d have to navigate this with everyone you know in hockey. I don’t like your dad, and you should do whatever the fuck you want. But when he says it would be a distraction, he isn’t wrong.”
“Yeah.”And it gives me the cold sweats. “My father says I need to wait until we get the contract we’d want. Then it would matter less.”
“And when is that?”
“This summer, if I’m lucky. Next summer if I’m not. And—just saying—lucky isn’t very on brand for me.”
He laughs. “Are you sure? Because Henry just asked me to go on the next road trip, and Reggie is cool with babysitting.”
It takes me a second to process that. “Whoa. You’re coming to Montreal and Ottawa?”
“That’s right.”
“Huh. You know, I do feel luckier all of a sudden.” That’s a comfortable road trip, too. Not the most grueling schedule. “Am I getting a whole night in a bed with you?”
“If you’re up for it.”
“Oh, I’ll beupfor it.”
He snickers. “Glad to hear it. I’d better go—these onions won’t chop themselves.”
“Go. But you’ve done wonders for my mood. As usual.”
“Later, sexy.”
“Later.”
TWENTY-THREE
Gavin
I’min an underground bar in Montreal, with twenty-three hockey players and six ping-pong tables. After we flew in on the jet, I expected the first stop would be the hotel.
But no—we came directly to this place. Apparently it’s a tradition. So I’m drinking a light beer and watching the end of a game between Jason Castro and Jimbo—the equipment guy.
“Aw, you fucker,” Jimbo says as Castro aces him again. “Your game has really improved this year. I want some of whatever you’re drinking.”
“Gavin fixed my backhand,” Castro says, nodding at me. “You can ask him for lessons, but I’m his manager now, and the price just went up. A thousand dollars an hour.”
Jimbo rolls his eyes. “What were you charging before, Gavin?”
“Just a beer,” I say with a shrug. “I’ll coach you when he’s not looking.”
“Let’s see you play,” Jimbo says to me, offering me his racket. “I’m tired of getting destroyed.”
“All right.” I set down my beer and step up to the table. “Need a breather, Castro? Water? Electrolytes? I don’t want to be accused of wearing you down before the game tomorrow.”
“No, I’m good.” He jumps up and down a few times, like a tennis player at Wimbledon. “Let’s do this. Coin toss, Jimbo.”
“Yessir.”
I win the coin toss, so I serve. And I don’t take it easy on Castro, because where’s the fun in that? It’s a fast game, the ball flying between us at a blur.
