The new guy, p.1
The New Guy, page 1
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Copyright © 2023 Sarina Bowen. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author.
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Editing by Sisters Get Lit. Proofreading by Claudia F. Stahl.
The New Guy is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, educational institutions, sports teams, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The New Guy
Sarina Bowen
Tuxbury Publishing LLC
Contents
Author’s Note:
1. Gavin
2. Hudson
3. Gavin
4. Hudson
5. Gavin
6. Hudson
7. Hudson
8. Gavin
9. Gavin
10. Hudson
11. Gavin
12. Gavin
13. Hudson
14. Gavin
15. Hudson
16. Hudson
17. Gavin
18. Gavin
19. Hudson
20. Gavin
21. Hudson
22. Hudson
23. Gavin
24. Gavin
25. Hudson
26. Gavin
27. Hudson
28. Gavin
29. Hudson
30. Gavin
31. Hudson
32. Hudson
33. Gavin
34. Hudson
35. Gavin
36. Hudson
37. Gavin
38. Hudson
39. Gavin
40. Hudson
41. Hudson
42. Gavin
43. Hudson
44. Hudson
45. Gavin
46. Hudson
47. Hudson
48. Hudson
49. Gavin
50. Hudson
Epilogue: One Year Later
I’m Your Guy: First Chapter
Also by Sarina Bowen
Author’s Note:
If you watch a hockey game, you’ll see the athletic trainer standing behind the bench. He (or she) is the one who runs out onto the ice if a player gets hurt.
Before writing this book, I didn’t have a terrific grasp of what athletic trainers really do. They’re not strength and conditioning coaches. They’re certified healthcare professionals.
I owe a special shout out to reader and athletic trainer Corie H., who steered me toward appropriate resources and who assisted with Hudson’s injury. Thank you! All mistakes are my own!
Cheers from New England,
—Sarina B.
One
Gavin
February
“Go out,” my sister says. “Have fun.” She literally pushes me toward the door to our new apartment. “What’s the point of free babysitting if you don’t take advantage?”
“Can I at least put on my coat first?”
“I suppose.” She grabs it out of the narrow coat closet and thrusts it at me with one tattooed arm. “There. Now go. See a movie. Or find a bar. Meet a guy. Have some adult fun, before you forget how.”
An argument forms on the tip of my tongue, but then my seven-year-old daughter, Jordyn, pipes up from the sofa. “Ooh! Aunt Reggie! ‘Love is an Open Door!’”
“Awesome!” my sister agrees. “Let’s hit it!”
The two of them are in the midst of a Frozen sing-along. I enjoy a good Disney movie as much as the next guy. But Frozen has been on heavy rotation in my home for a few years now. Adult fun is a barely recognizable concept at this point.
And half the reason I moved Jordyn to Brooklyn was so she could have more of a relationship with my punk rock sister.
So I do it. I put on my coat, give them a wave, and leave.
Outside, it’s a crisp, February night, although Brooklyn is nowhere near as cold as New Hampshire, where Jordyn and I lived until a few days ago. Another perk of Brooklyn: I don’t need a car here. My new neighborhood is within easy walking distance to everything we need.
At least that’s what the real estate broker promised when she showed me the rental last month. I made the decision to move here in a single day, after accepting a new job working for the Brooklyn Bruisers hockey team.
In the past, I’d done many impulsive things. I used to be a fun, easy-going guy who lived for excitement. But that was the younger me. I used to have a lot less to lose, and fewer people depending on me.
Now, as I walk past the historic brownstones, I’m a little terrified at what I’ve done. New job. New neighborhood. New school for Jordyn.
It’s a lot. And I think I’m already lost. Literally.
I don’t want to look like a tourist, though, so I don’t pull out my phone and check the map. I just keep going, turning corners and walking down every interesting block I encounter.
After a while, the quirky residential buildings give way to shops. I could do some grocery shopping, even though that isn’t what Reggie meant by “adult fun.”
When I turn onto Atlantic, the street becomes more lively. There are people out and about. It’s 8:30 on a Tuesday night, and the restaurants are doing good business. Even if I’ve forgotten how to party, the rest of the people in my new neighborhood haven’t.
Reggie says I’m the oldest twenty-five-year-old she knows. And maybe she’s right. When my phone vibrates a moment later, I pull it out immediately, just in case my sister has an emergency at home.
Stop looking at your phone, Reggie has texted. Go out and have at least half as much fun as we are right now. There’s a photo of her dressed up as Elsa, with my daughter Jordyn as Kristoff, because she is seven years old and determined not to do a single thing the same way that other seven-year-old girls do.
It’s adorable. And the sight of Reggie and Jordyn together makes my heart happy.
We’re going to be fine. Moving here wasn’t a huge mistake, and we’re going to love New York. I take another deep breath and then respond to the text. Cute. But why are you texting me if you don’t want me to look at my phone?
I was just testing you, she says. Now go find a hunky guy and don’t come home until the wee hours of the morning.
Right. Like that’s going to happen. I shove the phone in my pocket and continue on my way.
There was a time in my life when I was exactly the kind of guy who looked at a night out as an adventure. But now I’m the kind of guy who is thrilled to simply wander alone for an hour while my sister babysits.
Atlantic Avenue has a bunch of restaurants, but I can’t seem to make myself go in and ask for a table for one. I wander a little further and end up on Hicks, which is a quieter street. I stop in front of a sports bar that’s not too busy. I could sit at the bar and order some wings.
As I open the door, I notice there’s a hockey game playing on a TV over the bar. And it feels like a sign. In two days, I’m starting my new job with the Brooklyn NHL franchise. I’ve never worked with hockey players before, and I’m kind of nervous about it.
I’ll take all the positive signs I can get.
There are plenty of empty seats at the bar, probably because it’s only Tuesday. So I sit down and order a beer from a kind-looking older gentleman. “Should be a good game tonight,” he says. “We’re favored to beat Boston.”
“Awesome,” I say, as I wait for my beer.
I’m not a Brooklyn fan yet, though. I haven’t started the job. Also, it feels disloyal to Eddie. My husband—he died two years ago—was a Boston fan. Big time.
Growing up, I watched a lot of sports, but hockey wasn’t really on my radar. Then I met Eddie, and watching hockey together was part of our courting ritual. We had three great years together, and then he died in an accident at the age of thirty-two.
People always tell me, “You don’t look old enough to have a seven-year-old daughter.” And they’re mostly right. Eddie was nine years older than I was, and he was already a dad when I met him. I never imagined dating a single father of a toddler. It wasn’t on my bucket list.
But Eddie was special, and I fell hard. We watched a lot of TV together at home, because he had a kid to raise.
And then we had a kid to raise.
And now I have a kid to raise.
I miss him so much. It’s one reason why I applied for a job with the hockey team. Eddie would get a kick out of this, I remember thinking. It was really just a whim.
When they offered me the job, I was floored. Now here I am, on a barstool, hoping I made the right call.
Meanwhile, my beer lands in front of me in a frosty pint glass, and I take a grateful sip. When I glance around the bar, I notice a lot of hockey paraphernalia. There’s a signed Brooklyn Bruisers jersey framed at one end of the bar, and a signed Brooklyn Bombshells jersey at the other.
Eddie would get a kick out of that, too. But he’d still root for Boston.
On the screen, Brooklyn has the puck. But not a lot is happening. Nothing good, anyway. Boston is all over them. This is an away
Not to contradict the bartender, but I’m not sure Brooklyn feels like winning tonight. I guess time will tell.
Just as I’m having this thought, a guy sits down on the stool beside me. Like, right beside me, even though there’s a whole row of stools available.
It’s been a million years since I was a single guy sitting alone in a bar. But somehow the old reflexes kick in, and I turn my head to check him out. And hello. He is a fine specimen. Broad shoulders. Sandy brown hair and deep brown eyes. And a handsome face with the kind of strong, scruffy jaw that might leave beard burns on my thighs.
Whoa. That fantasy escalated quickly. That’s what happens when your dry spell is two years long.
Just as I remember to keep my tongue in my mouth, the hunk slowly cruises me, too. My pulse quickens, and our gazes lock.
“Hi,” I say, because I’m brilliant like that.
He blinks. I swear his eyes dilate, too.
But that’s when the bartender arrives in front of us, and the guy shuts it down so fast that I might already have whiplash.
“Hey, Pete,” he says, his attention fully on the bartender.
“Evening,” Pete returns with a chuckle. “Here to watch the game?”
“Of course. Can I have a lager and my usual?”
“Any time, kid.” Then he turns to me. “Any interest in a menu?”
“Heck yes,” I say. “Let’s have it.”
The older man slides it onto the bar, and I skim the offerings.
My new friend stays quiet until the bartender moves away. “Sorry to crowd you, but you have one of the best seats in the room.”
I almost make a joke about how nice my seat is. Almost. But I rein it in. “You’re not crowding me,” I say instead, my voice carefully neutral. “Any advice on this menu? Looks pretty standard.”
“Sorry, no.” That perfect, scruffy face says. “I always order the same thing. But the guys tell me the burger and the nachos are about as adventurous as you’re supposed to get.”
“Good tip.” I flag down the bartender again, and order the nachos.
Living large tonight. Chips for dinner!
It’s a start.
Two
Hudson
Okay, yup. I probably made that awkward. A really cute guy checked me out, and I panicked.
Guys don’t usually hit on me. Especially not in this bar. His smile, though? Caught me totally off guard. Made me forget for a minute all the reasons why I’m supposed to concentrate on hockey.
Only hockey.
Still, I sneak another look in his direction to try to figure out why he’s so distracting. Dark blond hair. Tight T-shirt reading Hank’s Gym, and muscular arms that have probably spent some serious hours in Hank’s Gym, wherever that is. He’s not bulky, though. Lean muscle, nicely defined chest. Blond hairs down his forearms.
He laughs suddenly, and I feel it in my groin. “Did you see that? Oof. So embarrassing.”
My eyes flick back up to the TV in time for the replay. And, yeah, things are not going well. Castro got stripped of the puck by a Boston D-man, and Silas had to dive for the save.
It’s chaos up there, but my eyes still turn back to their new favorite place. The world is full of attractive, toned men, and I usually don’t bother staring at them. My neighbor is a total hottie, though. And just for a moment, I allow myself to imagine how it might play out: I buy him a drink. We watch the game. And then I invite him over for a little Tuesday night stress relief.
That’s just a fantasy, though. I’m humoring myself, because it’s been a bad day. Honestly, a bad year. And it’s barely February.
The only reason I’m sitting here at all is because the Bruisers left me behind to go play Boston. The medical staff sent me to a specialist today to try to diagnose the pain and swelling I’ve had in my hip.
Luckily, the doctor said it’s just bursitis. But it’s sidelined me at an awkward time. Four weeks ago I was minding my own business in the weight room in Chicago. I’d had a recent string of bad games, and I’d been trying to stay positive and work hard.
But then? In my sweaty T-shirt, I’d been summoned to the GM’s office. And I’d known exactly what was happening. Here we go again, I’d thought as the big boss quickly thanked me for my service and sent me off to pack for a flight to New York that very evening.
I’d been traded. For a third string goalie and a first round draft pick.
Trades happen. You’re not supposed to take it personally. But I do. This was my fourth trade in five years. That’s a very high number.
Getting traded is very disorienting, and super stressful. So it’s no big surprise that I’ve been struggling on the ice in Brooklyn, too. I’m just not used to my teammates yet.
Tweaking my hip was just the latest indignity. So here I sit, watching my own damn team on TV, playing without me. So humiliating. And I can’t even watch this at home, because someone is watching Frozen on the other side of my wall, and singing along at the top of their lungs. I couldn't even hear the damn game.
“Maybe this is the wrong bar to say so,” says the hot guy beside me. “But Brooklyn looks a little shaky tonight.”
My loyalty is a reflex. “Not that shaky.” Except they do look skittish. “My name’s Hudson, by the way,” I add for no good reason.
“I’m Gavin,” he says, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
And, shit. There’s that smile again. Hot like a summer’s day. His eyes are gray, and they crinkle in the corners when he smiles. His handshake is pleasantly firm.
Something crackles between us again. When he holds my gaze a little too long, I can’t seem to make myself look away.
But then he lets go, just as Pete approaches with two plates. “Food, boys.” He slides them onto the bar at the same time, as if we’re dining together.
And I guess we are. After the game, though, I’ll get out of here. I’ll go straight home and watch some video for our upcoming game against Minnesota.
Eyes on the prize, Newgate. I remind myself. Stay the course.
I pick up my fork and cut into my burger patty, which is resting on a bed of salad greens. If my new friend Gavin thinks my no-carb dinner is weird, he doesn’t say so. He just crunches into a cheesy chip with a sigh of happiness.
It’s a nice sound, too. And my rebellious mind wonders what other sounds I could get him to make.
Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen.
I tuck into my food, and the game picks up speed. Castro has possession of the puck, and my guys try to make some magic.
But the offense falls apart again a few minutes later, and I watch the puck get carried into our defensive zone.
My guys are struggling tonight. The schedule has been brutal. And I’m not there to help.
Then, just as the scoreless first period is winding down, a Boston player trips Castro, who goes down while trying to catch a pass. The puck goes right into the waiting stick of a competitor.
Even worse—the ref doesn’t call the foul.
“Fuck that!” I shout. “Come on, Crikey. Time for payback. Can’t let them get away with it.”
Sure enough, the younger of our two enforcers looks for the first opportunity to pick a fight. The gloves are off before you can say let’s do this.
The bar is quiet tonight. But every pair of eyes turns toward the TV screen.
