Page 90 of The New Guy
“I was resting my eyes.”
Even as they play out this ridiculous argument, I’m grabbing for my phone again and opening up the app that tracks Drake’s blood sugar. I didn’t get any notifications, though.
And the app likes Drake’s numbers a lot right now.Great job, keep up the good work!it gushes.
“Your numbers are normal,” I say, squinting at him.
“I know,” he says, looking up at me with a bleary gaze. “That’s not my problem. I just feel icky.”
“Icky like how?” I demand. “Give me more to go on.”
“Like my body is made of concrete. And I have a headache.”
“Huh. Like flu symptoms?”
“Yeah, like that.” He shrugs. And now that I look closer, his skin is a pale gray color that I don’t really like.
“But you’re good to play?” Coach asks from right behind me.
“Of course,” Drake says.
Uh-oh.
Shit.
It’s not really my call whether Drake plays the third period with a fever. But is this a good idea? I’m going to have to watch his blood sugar like a hawk. I have no idea what a fever does to the metabolism. Or whether hockey players ever call in sick.
I’m really out of my depth right now. All I can do is lean forward and plant my palm on Drake’s sweaty forehead.
He’s burning up.
“Um…” I start to say.
But then Drake flicks my hand off his face and stands abruptly. His color is suddenly more green than gray.
Players and support staff part like the sea as Drake makes a dash toward the toilets.
“Well, fuck,” Coach says. “Everybody! Sanitize your hands. That’s an order. This team will not be taken out of the playoffs by a fucking virus.”
I start handing out alcohol wipes, while Jimbo frantically sanitizes all the equipment and the water bottles.
“Huh. I feel kinda funky, too,” another player says. “Thought it was something I ate.”
“You can feel funky after the third period,” Coach barks. “Let’s win this thing.”
The boys try. They really do. But the scoreboard is stuck at 1-2 when the final buzzer rings. And we all clomp back to the dressing room, defeated.
But none of my guys are bleeding, so I guess tonight is a win for me personally.
Meanwhile, the team doctor has been paged from his box seats. Doctor Herberts makes the rounds, giving Drake and a couple others a rapid test for flu, and three players come back positive.
“It’s going around,” he says. “Rest and fluids. No need to panic.”
Coach is pacing the rug, looking stressed, though. “New rule!” he bellows. “No morning skate tomorrow. Everybody stay home and rest. I need you all healthy before the playoffs start.”
The mood in the locker room is grim. I pack up my kit in silence, eager to head home and take care of my sick kid.
But when I check my phone for messages, I see one from Henry. And when I open it up, there’s a photo of him in a hospital mask, holding two tiny, swaddled babies—one in each arm.
