Page 81 of The New Guy
Georgia rolls her eyes skyward. “Okay, thank you both. I’ll need four more. The sign-up sheet will be on the portal, but does anyone else want to sign on right now?”
Another hand goes up. But it doesn’t belong to Hudson. He’s sitting a few seats away. And I risk a glance in his direction.
He must feel my gaze, too, because his eyes cut to mine. And then his expression does something complicated. I see pain, and irritation.
And also guilt.
Then he drops his chin and stares at his skates on the floor.
I don’t know if it’s fair of me or not. But I’m disappointed. How hard could it be to take some photos for ten minutes with a bunch of kids in LGBTQ families?
Too hard, somehow. I guess.
Annoyed with both of us, I heft my trainer’s bag and cross to leave the room. And I wonder what’s going on inside his head right now.
Nothing good, I’d bet.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Hudson
Montreal isn’t havinga great year, but they’re having a great night, apparently. So the game is a shit show. And not just for me.
Everything is just off. Our passes don’t connect. Our shift changes are messy. Our shots on goal keep hitting the post, and Ian Crikey got bloodied in a fight, and Gavin spent the second intermission patching him up.
Gavin had kept up a quiet conversation with Crikey, while bracing the player’s chin in one strong hand. He’d somehow speedily disinfected and bandaged his cuts one-handed. While Crikey had looked him trustingly in the eyes and tried not to flinch.
Competence is sexy.
And guess what’snotsexy? Cowardice. I’m still anguished over Georgia’s sign-up for the LGBTQ event. If I do that event, my father will blow up my phone with warnings and reminders.You need that contract. Don’t draw attention to yourself.
It’s only a few photos, though. Not a big pronouncement. But I can still hear my dad’s voice in my ear.Just be patient.Keep your head in the damn game.
Right now my head is not in the game. And the scoreboard proves it. We’re down by one as the third period opens. Luckily, Montreal has only done a middling job of creating opportunities in front of the net, or the score would be even worse.
“Come onlet’s go!” Coach bellows from behind the bench. “You’re better than this. You’re the better team. But I’m gonna need receipts.”
We need to clinch, and I want to be the guy who makes it happen. I want it so bad. It would make all the difference.
So when Coach finally taps me on the back, I vault over the boards with the energy of fresh legs and a burning desire to make a damn difference.
My speed doesn’t go unnoticed, either. Montreal sends out someone faster against me. And I manage to be a real pain in theirderrièrefor several shifts in a row.
Coach grunts his appreciation between my shifts. “Good hustle. Now just find yourself a shot on goal.”
If only. I guzzle some Gatorade, and Coach taps me again. Over I go, skating hard for the puck. I try every trick in the book—lifting the winger’s stick, blocking his shots, and generally making a nuisance of myself. The player I’m guarding has an unkempt mountain-man beard, and curses me out in a language I don’t speak. The dude is getting frustrated with me.
Good. That’s how I like it. This game isn’t over, either. We’ve come back from worse.
The cursing winger has the puck now, though. It’s up to me to get it back. And today I choose violence. We’re both big guys, but sometimes you have to sacrifice your body to make your point.
So maybe my backcheck is rougher than it needs to be. Colliding with him, I destabilize us both as I poke that puck through his tree trunk legs. I get the pass off, but the world is tilting fast.
As the stadium’s roof wheels into view, I hear the crowd start to make some noise. But then there’s a loud crash as I hit the ice. Hard.
And the noise cuts out abruptly.
* * *
