Page 29 of The New Guy
This single parenting thing is not for wimps.
* * *
Two hours later I’m at the practice facility. The players are coming off the ice from their morning skate, so I’m busy icing, taping and stretching various body parts.
“Thanks, man,” O’Doul says after I apply the thumper to his sore muscles.
“No problem. Stay warm and limber!” I call as he slides off the table. “Real men wear a Snuggie until game time.”
He laughs. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Next!” I call.
A sheepish looking Hudson Newgate enters the room. In a T-shirt and athletic shorts, he’s just fresh from the shower. “Here I am. Not avoiding you.”
“And I’m grateful. So are your hip flexors.” I wipe down the table with forced nonchalance. It’s important to me that we can work together. And not just because of my job.
I really like this hockey player. Grumpy, difficult Hudson Newgate is a gentler man than he lets on. And when I look at him, I see something familiar—a guy who’s doing his best in a situation he can’t control.
He kicks off his flip-flops and lies down on his back, and I get to work. “Bend this knee, please.” I tuck his muscular knee into the crook of my arm, and rotate it across his body. Then I apply pressure with my fingertips up and down his quads. “You okay? You aren’t breathing.”
Hudson lets out a breath. “Fine,” he mutters.
I massage his leg, waiting for him to relax into the stretch. Athletes are used to being handled like livestock. Still, everyone carries around unconscious associations with touch. Some people were taught at an early age not to trust it, but most of us learn to lean into it.
That’s why I like my job so much. Training works at the intersection of mind and body. I never go home at the end of the day wondering if I’ve been useful. Because there’s always someone who needs me.
I hear Hudson’s breathing slow as he sinks into my practiced touch. I apply some easy pressure to his knee, asking the muscles for a little more stretch.
“You’re making progress,” I tell him. “This hip thing is going to be okay.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I’ve noticed you say that to everyone. Like it’s your job to say that.”
Busted. I chuckle. “Sure. But it’s alsotrue.”
“Not really. There’s such a thing as a career-ending injury.”
“And here I couldn’t figure out why your nickname wasn’tMr. Sunshine.”
He snorts.
“The thing is? I see a lot of injuries.Allthe injuries. And most of them heal up just fine. Your perspective is different—you only see them from the terrifying point-blank range.”
“I guess,” he admits.
“It’s not my job to blow smoke up your ass. My job is to help itbeokay. And I’m good at my job.” I press my fingers into the most stubborn muscles of his thigh, and his jaw flexes. “It’s going to be okay. Okay?”
“Okay,” he grunts.
“Good man.” If I’ve read him right, this might be the only kind of touch Hudson ever gets—the careful, professional kind. So I do my best work. After I convince his IT band to release, I spend an extra moment on his calves, and then his ankle mobility. He makes a grimace, though, when I massage his foot with a firm grip.
“Hey, kids!” Henry, my boss, startles me from the open doorway. “Is New Guy having foot problems?”
“No,” he says immediately. “Everything’s fine here.” He sits up suddenly.
“Say, Gavin?” Henry prompts. “Thanks again for bailing us out on Friday night.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure.”
