Page 5 of The New Guy
“They had back-to-back games earlier this week. No wonder they look tired.”
I should be there with them, not sitting here like a loser.
“You know what?” Gavin says out of the blue. “I read that Castro used to play left wing.”
“Yeah?” I say noncommittally. It’s true, although I wasn’t on the team then.
“They should switch him back,” my new friend says decisively. “Or else make Drake play center. The first two lines are so lopsided.”
“I like it,” Pete says, passing by with clean glassware. “Good idea.”
I let out a snort. “Maybe you should swing by and give your thoughts to management. The headquarters is right in the neighborhood.”
Instead of getting offended, Gavin gives me a big, open smile that makes me feel like a jerk for taking a bitter tone with him. And he’s so attractive that I feel that smile in my pampered groin.
“How do you feel about the defensive pairings?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.
“I’m underwhelmed,” he says, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I take a gulp of beer instead.
Five minutes later, Boston commits another egregious foul, this time against Tank, my fellow defenseman. “Goddamn that cross-check!” I shout at the TV. “Ref! You’re blind!”
And then it gets worse when those fuckers score on us thirty seconds later. Now it’s three to zero. I groan.
“Ouch,” Gavin says, draining his beer.
I set my beer down on the bar, half full. Watching my team lose is honestly excruciating, knowing I’m not there to help.
“Hey—feel like a game of pool?” Gavin asks suddenly. “I think I saw a table in that back room. And this game? It’s all over but the crying.”
“It isn’t,” I argue as a reflex. Because ofcourseI’m going to watch the game all the way to the end. This is literally my job.
But then Boston scores again. And I’m in hell. It hurts to watch, and Coach Worthington is just going to make me watch it again during tomorrow’s video session. “Is that pool game still on offer?” I hear myself ask. “Or even better—ping-pong?”
His gray eyes widen, and he pulls out some cash to settle his check. “Iloveping-pong. Lead the way.”
* * *
Confession: I am a stud at ping-pong. Most hockey players love it, and most teams have a table somewhere in the practice facility.
Except it turns out that Gavin is good too, so I don’t have to take it too easy on him. He holds his gorgeous body in a loose, wide-legged stance. And he seems to find the ball no matter where I put it.
Watching him parry the ball back to me does nothing to dampen the attraction I feel for him, either. I’d like to take that shapely jaw in hand, testing its lines against my fingertips. And I’d like to run my hands through his wavy blond hair.
The game is fun. Really fun. I win the first game, but just barely.
“You’re pretty good,” he says. And there’s that flirty smile again.
“I’m all right. My backhand is a little awkward tonight.”
“No it isn’t,” he argues. “Your backhand is fine, but the way you unwind it slows you down.”
I bark out a laugh. “Wait, really? What are you, a ping-pong guru?”
He shrugs. “I’ve taught tennis lessons. It’s kind of the same principle. Watch.”
Setting his paddle down, he moves around the table until he’s standing behind me. Then he reaches around my body to grasp my wrist—the one that’s holding the paddle. “So, the way you move your paddle is efficient.” He guides my arm to move into the backhand position.
His grip on my wrist is firm. He doesn’t do anything cheesy—like gratuitously stroking a thumb over my skin. But it doesn't matter. Ilikethat firm grip. I want more of it on my body.
