Page 38 of The Last Guy On Earth
“I’mfine.” Newgate gets to his feet. “I promise. Just feeling really weird about being the diversity poster boy for an entire sport. No big deal.”
Just the idea makes me want to climb out of my skin.
“Come and sign a few items for the auction,” Clay says. “Then see the trainer.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Newgate strides out of the alcove. “Later, Hale.”
“Later, kid.”
I wait for Clay to leave, but he doesn’t. “He’s not a kid,” he says.
“They’re all kids,” I grumble, tipping onto my back to pull my knees into my chest. “From one dinosaur to another. Am I right?”
Clay sighs. “Not gonna let that go, huh?”
“Nope.”
He finally walks away.
SEVENTEEN
Clay
It’s almost game time.The arena is jam packed with fans. My players are about to make history. The number of news vans outside has swelled beyond my wildest imagination. We’re the story of the hour.
And I’m a mess inside. A goddamned mess. I want to barf from nerves and then hide in a corner somewhere with a cool washcloth on my forehead.
Instead, I force my shoulders back and give my players a last-minute pep talk before warmups. “For some people, tonight is a big deal. We’ll have new eyes on us.” The room goes quiet, as it always does, because I run a tight ship, and this is a respectful team.
If only I felt truly deserving of that respect tonight.
“The thing is, though—we’ve already done the work that’s led us here. We already know that being a team means more than passing the puck or covering each other on the ice. It means embracing every player’s unique contribution. We understand that the strength of a team lies in its unity and the trust we place in one another.
“We support our teammate Hudson Newgate—andallour teammates—every night. So it doesn’t matter who’s out there watching or what they write about us in the news tomorrow. We already know who we are. We already know what to do when the puck drops. All we need to do is bear down and do it. It’s time, guys. Let’s show all our new fans how this is done. Cougars on three.”
Murph counts to three, and then the room shakes with the force of thirty raised voices. Including mine. And Hale’s, whose face I find unerringly in the crowd, even if I’m not supposed to seek it out.
In their bright rainbow jerseys, the players hustle out the door and into the tunnel. I stay to the back, clipboard in hand. The crowd gets louder as I draw nearer to the ice, which is wild, because the game doesn’t start for another half hour. Warmups are usually for diehard fans only.
Not tonight. When the first players reach the bench, the crowd erupts with cheers. Bringing up the rear, I stop and stare at the spectacle of packed seats throbbing with fans in Pride gear. They’re wearing rainbow hats and face paint. Many of them are waving signs, mostly on the theme of:WE LOVE YOU NEWGATE.
“Holy pepperoni,” mutters Stoney. He hasn’t taken off his skate guards. He’s just standing there, gaping like I am.
I clap my hands together. “Let’s go, boys. Clock’s tickin’.”
Newgate takes the ice, and the crowd screams. His face is bright red as they chant his name. “NEW-GATE! NEW-GATE!”
“Huh,” Stoney says, stepping onto the ice with a couple other players. “If I kiss a dude, will they chant my name? Anybody wanna test that out with me?”
“You score a goal in the first five minutes, I’ll kiss you myself,” Kapski says. “Get a hat trick tonight, and I’ll even give you tongue.”
“NEW-GATE, NEW-GATE!” says the crowd.
Newgate skates toward center ice, where a couple of his ex-teammates from Brooklyn are waiting for him. We timed his announcement with this game for a reason.
The crowd erupts as he fist-bumps them one at a time.
My guys hit the ice for real, and I try to pay attention. This is my last chance to think about our plan of attack. Just because Brooklyn has some friendly faces doesn’t mean they’re going to hand us the win.
