Page 84 of The New Guy
An hour later we reach the airport by bus. Once in the terminal, I find a quiet corner and call Henry. He answers right away. “Hey! How’s Crikey’s face?”
“He’ll have to see the doctor tomorrow, probably needs a couple of stitches. That’s all. Bled a lot.”
“Yeah, face wounds usually do,” he says with a sigh. “And Newgate? Any sign of concussion?”
My stomach clenches. “He passed the tests, but you should see his helmet. And there’s a bump on the back of his head.”
“I replayed that fall a few times. He hit once with the helmet on, and then kind of bounced after it popped off.”
“He blacked out,” I say as a wave of nausea rolls through me. “Just for a couple seconds.” My voice is casual, but there had been a moment when he didn’t move. You never want to see that kind of awful, absolute stillness.
Hedidn’tsee it, either. Rationally, I know that’s why he was so adamant that he was fine. To him, it was nothing.
To me, it was a horror movie made real.
“Ah,” Henry says. “You made the right call, pulling him from the game.”
“No question,” I say. “The protocol is very clear.”
“It still sucks, though, right?” Henry prompts. “The athlete is usually an ass about it. They feel like they have to be.”
“Oh, is that why?”
Henry laughs. But he has no idea how upset I am about the whole experience.
In a normal workweek, there’s no conflict of interest between me and Hudson. Henry is the head trainer, and it’s his job to help the team doctor and the coach determine player fitness.
These rare road trips are an exception, though. And I’d been kidding myself when I thought I could have my fun and do my job, too.
“What were his scores?” Henry asks. And after I give him all the information, he says, “Come see me tomorrow. There’s something I have to run by you.”
“Of course.” We hang up, and it’s time to board the jet.
The flight home is quiet, the players sleeping or watching movies at their seats. But I can’t relax. All I can do is replay the night’s horrors. Hudson’s brief incapacitation will probably haunt my dreams. But the part afterward was worse—with me trying to do my job with shaky hands and a janky heart, while he argued with me.
Now I have a splitting headache, and deep, deep regrets.
When we arrive, I sprint for the taxi line alone, and grab a cab by myself.
Hudson is texting me, though.You left without me? I thought we could ride home together. Don’t I get to say I’m sorry?
I leave him onread, and try to figure out what to say.
Look, I know I fucked up, he continues.In that situation I’m not supposed to argue with you. I know you were just doing your job. I’m sorry, okay? It won’t happen again.
I get it, I finally reply.You were just doing your job, too. But this is why we’re problematic. I’m the one who’s really at fault here. I know better. And I really need this job.
Those bubbles appear—the indication that the other person is typing. But the message doesn’t appear. I wait for it a long time. But it isn’t until the taxi turns onto our street that he answers me.
Let’s talk about this tomorrow, he says.I don’t want to put you in a rough position. But I can do better. I can make this not a problem.
I close my eyes and picture his body stretched out on the ice, his chin lolling to the side like a dead man.
And then I picture the way he mostly ignores me when we’re both at the practice facility together. The heavy secret of his attraction. The dark secret of my conflict of interest.
It’s too much tonight. Too complicated. More pain than gain. More hurt than love.
So I don’t answer his text. I pay the driver and I go inside my apartment, where everyone is quiet. I go into Jordyn’s room and pull the covers up on her sleeping body. I kiss her forehead.
