Page 46 of The New Guy
“Go win your game,” he says with a smirk. “The kid and I will be watching.”
“Will do. Later, guys.” I give them both a wave and move my ass toward the stairs.
I’d better make it a good game, too. Wouldn’t want to disappoint a little girl before our dinner date.
* * *
The energy in the dressing room tonight is in the red zone. Colorado is coming off a great season, and my teammates are fired up to beat them. “Who’s warming up with some elimination soccer?” Castro asks, the ball tucked under his arm. “Trevi? Bayer? How ‘bout you, New Guy? You never play.”
“Fine,” I say, rising from the bench, even though I’m not in the mood to knock the ball around. I like to keep to myself before a game.
But I don’t want my teammates to think I’m aloof. So I follow them toward the loading dock, where there’s enough space. Castro chucks the ball to Trevi, who kicks it to me. I use my knee to knock it at Bayer.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” Bayer says. “I think Colorado’s advantage is training at altitude. Aren’t their lungs, like, stronger than ours because the air is thinner there?”
“I dunno,” someone else argues as the ball continues its journey around the circle. “If that were true then Calgary would be a powerhouse.”
The team is quiet for a moment, mulling over this paradox. I tap the ball back to Bayer.
“We should do a training camp in Switzerland next year,” Bayer says, heading the ball at Castro. “It could be our secret weapon.”
“Last year you said açai berries should be our secret weapon,” Castro grunts. “I had the shits for a week.”
Several people make gagging noises, and Bayer laughs so hard he gets eliminated for letting the ball hit the ground.
I’m the next to go out, missing a fiery punt from Trevi.
Okay then. Mission accomplished—I played the game and still have plenty of time to build my focus.
I’m in the corridor, using the wall for support and stretching my quads, when I hear footsteps.
“Hudson Newgate!” booms a familiar voice. It’s Clay Powers, the coach for Colorado.
Fuck.
“How are you doing, kid? Nice assist against Florida last week.”
“Thanks.” I grudgingly turn to acknowledge him. “I’m having a good season.”
That’s only recently true. But I don’t owe this guy anything. He was an assistant coach back when I played for his team, and now he has the top job.
And I used to trust him. He was right there in the room on the day I tried to come out. But those men had looked at me like I’d grown an extra head.
Then I’d left the room. And they must have unanimously decided that having a queer player on the team would be a fatal distraction. Or maybe they were just plain repulsed.
Looking back on that day, I want to smack myself for being so naïve. I’ll never make that mistake again.Message received. You don’t get to be a special, distracting snowflake until you’re the most valuable player on the team. The guy they can’t live without.
So that’s what I’ve got to become. It’s just taking a lot longer than I thought it would.
“Yeah, this could be a big season for you,” Powers says.
“Thanks.”
I wait for him to move along, but he pauses there in the hallway and considers me. “Saw you missed a few games last month. I got worried.”
Sure you did, pal. And now I understand why we’re having this chat—he’s fishing for information. There’s a reason why teams report player injuries in the vaguest of terms. We saya lower body injury.
We are never specific, because if you tell the whole world your right hip is inflamed, the team goon can just target that spot and take you out for good.
