Page 99 of The New Guy
“Let me deal with it,” I insist, and when I open the apartment door, a young man wearing a delivery company’s vest is just jogging up the stairs, an envelope in his hand. “Gavin Gillis?” he asks.
“That’s me.”
“Sign here.”
I do, and a few seconds later I’m holding a nondescript envelope with no return address. And I’m filled with dread.
It must be a summons. Eustace has really done it—she’s sued me for custody of Jordyn.
I set the unopened envelope down on the counter and go back into the kitchen. But I can’t even remember what I was supposed to be doing. My mind is overloaded with panic.
“Daddy?” Jordyn asks softly. “Aren’t we making corn bread?”
Right. Corn bread. “Yeah, baby. Can you find the measuring cups?”
“What did the man bring?” she asks, yanking open a kitchen drawer.
“I don’t know,” I say heavily. “I’ll open it later.” My hands are actually shaking as I pull the bag of flour out of the cupboard. I can’t open that thing in front of Jordyn. I’ll probably cry. “Did you wash your hands?”
“Oh, whoops.” She darts out of the kitchen for the bathroom, probably because the stepstool in there makes it easier for her to reach the faucet.
So I grab the envelope and tear it open briskly. Like tearing off a Band-Aid. Then I hold my breath and pull out…
Two tickets. To Game One of the playoffs, starting in two hours. There’s also a gift card for the concession restaurants, and a hastily scrawled note, too.
G—sorry for the awfully short notice. I had to scrounge for these. But Jordyn was so sad to miss that other game, so please enjoy this one. —H
“Holy shit.” I whisper.
“Daddy! You sweared.”
“Jordyn,look!” I have so much emotional whiplash right now. “Forget the corn bread, we have seats in row E for the game.”
“Holy shit!” she chirps.
“Hey!”
She cracks up laughing and starts jumping up and down. “Can we go right now? Wait—we have to wear purple!” She does a dizzyingly fast one-eighty and streaks toward her bedroom.
My grin is so wide it hurts my face.
THIRTY-FOUR
Hudson
Yogi Berra once said:“Ninety percent of baseball is mental and the other half is physical.”
But I consider it the perfect hockey quote, too, and the fucked-up math is the whole point. Some nights you know you’re capable of giving a hundred and forty percent, and those nights are magic.
That’s the kind of confidence I’m bringing with me tonight, and we haven’t even left the dressing room yet. But this is my year, as my father is so fond of saying. I’m healthy, my team is mostly healthy, and we are here to make some noise.
I’m so fired up tonight that even my father’s pregame sermonizing didn’t annoy me much. The fact that he’s watching tonight doesn’t bother me, either.
Because Gavin is watching too. By the time I shut my phone down, I’d already received an ecstatic text of thanks, and a photo of Jordyn in purple face paint.
“Let’s roll, boys!” O’Doul hollers, and we all hoot wildly in response.
Tonight is a gift. And maybe I’m a little sensitive about the number of times I’ve been traded, but I can honestly say that the trade to Brooklyn was also a gift. I want this team, and this game, and this chance. I belong here.
