Page 12 of The New Guy
But still.Give it a rest, Dad.
“All right. One more game,” he says, as if it were up to him. “You’re taking anti-inflammatories, and icing it?”
“Textbook, I promise. I practically live in that damn ice bath.”
He chuckles. “All right. I know you’re doing the work.”
All I do is work.
“—It's just that four weeks in on a new team is a crappy time to be injured. They need to see you as their new powerhouse on the blue line.”
I lean my head against the wall and let him talk. As if I don’t have all these same thoughts every day.
Even before breakfast.
“—While you’re waiting, don’t slack off. Lots of upper body work. Get yourself to every video meeting.”
Yeah, that's every day of my life.
“You’re going to heal up and settle in. Pretty soon Brooklyn won’t be able to remember how they lived without you.”
“You know it,” I say, because that's my line in this drama. Plus, I want to believe it.
“Chin up, Hudson. You can overcome this.”
“Thanks, Dad.” He’s overbearing as fuck, but we both want the same things. And to his credit, he never expresses what we’re both thinking—that five years bouncing around on different teams is not a good look.
I’m like the dog who’s still looking for a forever home—but people keep returning him to the shelter after a few months.He’s great. Lots of enthusiasm, never pees on the rug, but he doesn’t fit our family.
My father and I sign off, and I wander back into the weight room. Someone else has taken my turn on the bench, and my hip has gotten stiff from standing still for ten minutes, so I head for the mats and stretch.
“Hey, New Guy?” Castro calls. “You got your phone on you? We need some tunes. Something retro? Maybe Santana.”
“Sure,” I say, reaching for my phone. A couple of taps later, and Santana is wailing away on his guitar.
“Thanks, New Guy.”
I give him a friendly salute. But the truth is that I hate that nickname with the fire of a thousand suns. Not that Castro means anything by it—with a name like Newgate, “New Guy” is just low-hanging fruit.
But after four trades in five years, I’m damn sick of being the new guy—and trying to prove myself day in and day out for a new set of faces. It’s exhausting as well as inconvenient. I’ve learned not to sign a long-term lease. I don’t buy a lot of furniture, and I can never own a pet.
Those are just minor inconveniences, though. The grueling part is constantly adapting your style of play to fit in with the new team’s needs. You have to be a sponge—learning your teammates names, nicknames and quirks. Listening to the coach like your job depends on absorbing every word.
Because it does.
I roll back and tuck one knee into my chest, and then massage the opposite hip. The athletic trainers usually help with this, but I haven’t seen one today.
Just as that thought forms in my mind, I hear Henry’s voice out in the corridor. “The men’s weight room is usually about half capacity after morning skate. Some guys want to get in a quick workout, some go right home and take a pregame nap.”
Henry’s giving someone a tour of the facility. And suddenly I’m on high alert, like there’s a noticeable change in the air pressure.
Two men walk through the door, and my heart practically explodes.
Oh no. Ohshit. It’shim. Gavin from the bar. Gavin with the clear gray eyes, and the quick smile. In a Brooklyn polo, with an employee ID clipped to his khakis. That’s the uniform for athletic trainers.
Holy hell. There’s a clipboard hugged under one muscled arm, and I can see my own name on it. Fuck me. This is bad. He’s going to work with the team?
It takes me about zero-point-five seconds to picture him kneeling down on this very mat and lifting my leg in his hands to pin it back against my chest, while I gaze up at his dark blond hair, and that rippling chest that I still want to explore with my tongue.
