Page 120 of The New Guy
“They know me here.”
Sure enough, a smiling waiter with a thick accent seats us at the nicest table in front of the window.
“Two of my usual, Pierre,” O’Doul says.
“Oui monsieur.” Then he pours sparkling water into two fancy glasses and retreats.
I glance around the restaurant, which is quirky and cool. And I wish I could have brought Gavin here already. God, if I get traded, I might never see him again.
“All right,” O’Doul says, smoothing the napkin onto his knee. “Why do you look so bummed out?”
“You’re a regular here,” I say insensibly.
He just nods.
“I’ve never been a regularanywhere.”
He lifts a curious eyebrow, but waits for me to continue.
“There’s a rumor. I might…” A wave of nausea nearly overcomes me. “I might get traded again.”
He blinks, surprised. “Any reason to think it’s true? Players don’t usually hear that shit.”
“My father,” I mutter. “He hears a lot of shit.”
“Ah.” O’Doul picks up his glass and takes a drink. I never really pictured him as a fancy restaurant guy. Then again, I don’t spend a lot of time with my teammates. Figures I wouldn’t know them very well.
Suddenly, this feels like a huge loss.
“Your dad is an interesting guy,” he says carefully. “What’s the point of telling you there’s a trade rumor if it might not come true?”
“To warn me, I guess?”Or to control me.
Shit. That’s probably the real reason.
O’Doul looks out the window, like he’s thinking. “I know your trade history is a burden. You feel like you can never relax.”
“Because I can’t. I’m always remaking my game to suit the new team.”
His gaze returns to mine. “I came to hockey a much different way than you. I didn’t have a family. No real mentors. Twenty bucks in my wallet to feed me for a week. But it was easier that way. Nobody telling me how to be. I had no choice but to be a hundred percent me, all the time. Didn’t know any better.”
I’d heard snippets of his story in the locker room. O’Doul was an orphan who grew up on the streets. “Yeah, it was different for me. There’s pictures of me skating in diapers on an NHL practice rink.”
He snorts. “Excellent blackmail material. But I don’t envy you that family dynasty thing. Or the feeling that getting traded again would be a failure.”
“It would be,” I point out.
“Would it, though?” he shrugs. “Getting traded right now would suck, but it would also mean that somebody wants you.”
“Yeah, but I have nolife.”
He nods slowly, my anguish ringing between us. “I hear that. Except for one thing—did anyone at this table get traded today?”
“Not yet. Day ain’t over, though.”
He taps the table with two thick fingers. “You’re here right now. And you can’t live your life looking over your shoulder. Maybe it’s easy for me to say, because I’ve never been traded. But you have to make every day count. Otherwise what’s the point?”
I shrug.
