Page 77 of The New Guy
“Good,” he says, stroking the back of my neck. “Because I thought I lost you for a second there.”
“How could you tell?”
He shrugs those big shoulders. “I’m pretty clued into you. I’m always paying attention to you, even if I don’t let it show.”
“Oh.” I swallow hard. “Sorry. I got a little distracted thinking about the dickish people in my life.”
He puts a firm hand on my back. “Okay, serious question. How can we usedickto describe somebody who’s terrible? Aren’t we doing a disservice to dicks?”
I snort. “I like dicks as much as the next guy. But a dick can’t think on its own. This is a proven fact—if you let dicks make decisions, bad stuff happens.”
“Fair point.” His voice is laced with humor. “I can see you’ve given this some thought.”
“I have. Because a dick is only great if it’s attached to the right guy. I’m a fan of yours, for example. Ten out of ten. And I appreciate its skills of distraction.”
His thumb strokes my back, and his voice turns serious. “I’m glad. But tonight was a lot more than just some fun for me. I care about you, and I hate seeing you stressed.”
I run my fingers through his chest hair with a sweet touch, but I don’t really know what to say to that. If I’m honest, it scares me a little. “You can probably tell that I like you a whole lot, too.” After all, I’m curled up on his chest like he’s my favorite teddy bear. “It’s just that I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Hey, relax,” he says, smoothing a hand across my hair. “I’m not asking you for anything. I just want you to know that meeting you has made a real impact on me. It’s making me question all my choices, and that’s agoodthing.”
“Because you weren’t happy?” I whisper.
“Not happy enough,” he says slowly. “I’m so tired of sacrificing my whole life for hockey, when hockey can never love me back. Not really. Even if I get a big contract—even if I get exactly what I want—it’s only temporary. Hockey is like a grinder—it eats up everything you’ve got and eventually spits what's left of you out on the other side.”
That does sound frighteningly accurate. Every professional sport works like that, too. And we don’t talk about it enough.
“See…I know that maybe you can't love me back, either. And I'll just have to accept it. But it's still nice to care about something beyond the next game or the next contract. I don't think I can go on like that anymore.”
“Wow.” I kiss his impressive stomach. “That’s some big thinking you’re doing.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s not easy to admit that my life is essentially selfish. Everything for hockey. No time for anyone else. Christ—your husband was a freaking doctor, right? I could never compete with that even if I tried.”
“He was a pediatrician who loved hockey,” I point out. “But I understand your struggle. I love athletes. I love how crazy they are, and how committed. How they put everything else on hold for this one thing. I get it, but I also think it takes a strong man to admit that it isn’t enough. Show meoneathlete who didn’t have trouble with the transition to the end of his career. It’s a thing we don't discuss often enough in professional sports.”
“Right. Retirement is like a monster under the bed. You can't even whisper its name or it’ll come over you.”
We both laugh.
“Now I kind of want to check under this bed,” I tease.
“But I booked a suite,” he says. “They don’t allow monsters here.”
“Of course.”
We lapse into silence again, but then he sighs. “When I'm in a room with you, everything seems so clear. I want a life. I want to be myself, and stop hiding. But the minute I put on my jersey, everything gets more complicated. I’m part of a team. I’m paid a lot to do a job, but not paid enough to tell management to fuck itself.”
“I know,” I say soothingly. “Your job is not easy.”
“Yeah, I used to think I would look up one day and say—okay, I made it. I’m successful. I don’t care anymore what people think. Now I realize how dumb that sounds. I might play hockey another five to seven years, but every one of them could be exactly this hard.”
I lift my chin off his chest, and look right into those brown eyes. And, yeah, this isn’t just about sex anymore. I don’t know if it ever really was. I like this difficult, tortured man. I like him a lot. “I really appreciate hearing the things in your head.”
“Do you?” He lays his head back against the pillow. “Well I’m trapped in here a lot, and it gets old. Thank you for listening to me ramble.”
“Anytime.”
“I know I’m a wreck, and I’ve basically promised my father I won’t come out until I get a new contract. What are you even doing here with me?”
