Page 92 of The New Guy
This is why I shouldn’t ever have a morning off. I can’t stand to be alone with my thoughts.
The email is still sitting there on my screen, though. Before I can overthink it again, I hit the reply button.Sure, Georgia, I’m in. Just tell me where and when.
Then I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Or million-guess myself.
It’s just some photos. No big deal, right?
I turn off my computer and find some running shoes. Sitting still isn’t working for me. I need to sweat some of the stupid out of me.
* * *
The next morning I get up at eight, like always. My apartment feels like a prison cell, and I’m eager to get out of here.
But as soon as I sit up, I know something’s wrong. My head aches, and it hurts when I move my eyes. And when I get a drink of water, my throat feels scratchy and odd. Lifting a hand to probe my neck, I discover that my lymph nodes are swollen.
Well, fuck. This is bad. But pro hockey players don’t call in sick unless they’re half dead.
On the other hand, if I’m the guy who spreads illness around before the playoffs, the coach willnotbe happy.
Reluctantly, I find the number for the team doctor and leave him a message, asking for guidance. Then I climb back in bed and wait for his phone call.
But that’s not what happens. An hour later, there’s a knock on my door. And it’s Gavin standing there with a bowl in one hand and his trainer’s kit in the other.
He pushes forward like a bulldozer the moment I open the door. “Get back in bed! Why didn’t you tell me you had the flu? Where should I put the ramen?”
In spite of feeling like shit, my tummy rumbles when he mentions those noodles. “Whoa, is this your homemade stuff?” I take the bowl out of his hands. It’s piping hot.
Then I lower myself to the sofa and take a sip of the broth, right from the lip of the bowl.
Gavin drops his kit and hustles to my kitchen to find me some silverware and a napkin. He pulls a bottle of fresh squeezed orange juice out of his bag, too.
And for a split second I feel like getting the flu on game day is maybe not the worst thing that could happen to a guy.
But then Gavin sits down next to me and unpacks a rapid test. “We’ve got to swab your nose.”
“Hold on,” I argue. “Why are you even here? I don’t want to get you or Jordyn sick.”
“Too late!” he says. “Jordyn is already down for the count. Actually, she’s already improving. And I never get sick.”
“Me neither, until now.”
“Hold still,” Gavin says. And when I put down my spoon, he assaults my nose with a swab.
“Argh,” I complain as the swab goes too deep for comfort. “Never thought I’d see the day when I didn’t want your paws all over me. But here we are.”
“Holdstill,” he snorts, going for the other side.
I put my hands on his rib cage and sigh. He feels so good. But I’m not supposed to touch him.
“There,” he says, getting up and heading for the kitchen counter, where he does something complicated with the test, and then washes his hands.
I try to console myself with soup, but five minutes later he’s showing me a positive test for influenza A.
“Do not leave this apartment,” he instructs me. “Coach is calling up some players from Hartford for tonight’s game. He wants his A-team rested and healthy.”
“That sucks,” I complain. “What about the photo op? I signed up.”
Gavin’s perfect gray eyes blink slowly. “You did?”
