Page 98 of The New Guy
Reggie shakes her head.
I don’t want to confuse her, so that’s a relief.
Or so I’d thought. But that night, as I’m combing out her wet hair, she suddenly asks me a question. “Is Hudson your boyfriend?”
Gulp. “No, honey. Why do you ask?”
“He went to sleep on your bed. Like Papa always did.”
Oh. “I told him to make himself comfortable, because he’s getting over the same flu that you had.”
“But hecouldbe your boyfriend,” she presses. “If he wanted to.”
It’s a good thing she can’t see my face right now, because I am truly at a loss for words. I won’t lie to her. Or discuss Hudson’s private business, either. But where does that leave me? “Hudson is very special to me. But I don’t think he’s looking for a boyfriend.”
“He should be,” she says, as if it were up to her. “He’s nice, and he likes you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say lightly. “In case it comes up.”
* * *
Hudson is a busy man, though.
Here’s another thing I didn’t know about the NHL schedule—there are only four days between the last regular season game and the first playoffs game. And the playoffs encompass four rounds of up to seven games each—a month and a half of additional play. The two teams who make it to the final round will have their time off shortened to six weeks before training camp starts up again.
Hockey is bonkers. The human body isn’t built to work that hard for so long. When I think about it too hard, my muscles ache in sympathy.
Luckily, our little flu epidemic fades away. But that still means long hours at the practice rink. I stretch and evaluate and tape and massage people from dawn until the moment I run out of the building to pick up Jordyn from school.
By the evening of game one, I’ve done my part for the team. I’m unloading groceries in my kitchen in preparation for making Jordyn a game night dinner of chili and corn bread.
She’s pumped up about watching, and riveted by the concept of a playoffs bracket. She picks Brooklyn to win everything, and then chooses her other picks based on their jersey colors and logos. But everyone needs a system, right?
“They’d better win,” she says, dancing in front of the TV. “I’m counting on it.”
“Baby, there’s still two hours until the puck drops,” I point out. “Better find something else to do for a little while.”
“Twohours?” She slumps onto the sofa, like a deflating balloon. “I hate my life.”
“Jordyn!” She sounds seventeen, not seven. And I’m not used to it.
“I don’t hate all my life,” she says, rolling over to smile at me. “Just a little part.”
“Okay, good. Want to help me make corn bread?”
“Sure!” She pops off the couch like there are springs inside her body. “Can I measure the flour?”
Before I can answer, the apartment’s door buzzer rings.
“Ooh! I’ll answer.” She’s already dashing for the door. “Hello? Okay.” As I watch, she presses the button that unlocks the door.
“Who is it?” Nobody ever rings our doorbell.
“A carrier delivery,” she says.
“A what? Do you mean acourier?”
She shrugs.
