The new guy, p.22
The New Guy, page 22
Cujo puts up a good fight. He’s wily. He varies his routine, trying to shake me.
But I am nothing if not patient. I’ve been waiting years to make my mark on this game, and I could keep this up all night long.
Late in the second period, it finally happens. Cujo gets tired—mentally as well as physically. When I block yet another pass, he lets his anger overrule his patience. So I double down and crowd his personal space.
Instead of backing off for another try, he yanks me out of the way, his hand gripping my jersey.
I fall, but knock the puck out of his reach on my way down.
Castro swoops in, grabs it and skates hard toward the goal. I don’t breathe as Philly’s D-man closes in on him. But Castro fires toward the net.
The whole stadium gasps as it streaks right past the post and goes in.
Twenty thousand people scream as the lamp lights, and the ref blows the whistle.
Delayed penalty on Philly.
I hop to my feet. Then I tilt my face toward the rafters and cheer. “Thanks for that laugh, Cujo.”
“Cocksucker,” he jeers.
Only when I’m lucky, dude.
Then I hear the announcer call the first goal of these playoffs.
And the assist goes to me.
There are no easy games, though, and the third period is tense. Philly ties it up, and then we answer back with another goal. When the final buzzer rings, it’s 2-1 in our favor.
On my sweaty trip back down the tunnel, a journalist sticks a microphone in my face. “Can we expect more of this from Hudson Newgate in the postseason?”
It’s a dumb question, but I smile anyway. “Sure thing!”
“Your father must be so proud of tonight’s effort.”
“One in a row!” I say cheerfully.
But the journalist wasn’t wrong. My dad is elated with my performance tonight. After the game—and my shower, and the press conference—he can’t stop gushing about my speed and focus. “More of that the day after tomorrow,” he says, even as my mother rolls her eyes and leans heavily against the wall in the corridor outside the dressing room.
“Right on,” I say, finally tired. “I’d better head home and get some z’s. You guys, too, right? Mom looks like she’s asleep on her feet.”
My father glances toward her, like maybe he’s forgotten she’s there. “Yeah, good plan. We need you rested.” His eyes narrow, though. “You’re heading straight home?”
“Sure.” Then I narrow my eyes. “Emphasis on straight, right?”
“Hudson.” He actually looks over both shoulders, making sure nobody is within earshot. “Don’t be careless. Not now.”
“I’m never careless,” I hiss. “But one day soon I’m going to live my truth out loud. And I’m going to do that with all the care in the world. So brace yourself.”
I go home alone, of course. But in the taxi, I check my texts. There’s a selfie of Gavin and Jordyn at the game, smiling happily. And another selfie of Gavin drinking a beer, and giving me silly eyes over the rim of the cup. And a picture of Jordyn jumping up and down with her Bombshells pom-poms in her hands.
That last one is from your assist! We screamed. Amazing game! Thanks again for this gift. So awesome.
I tuck my phone into my jacket pocket and watch the lit-up store fronts glide by. Making Gavin happy is almost as satisfying as playing well tonight.
He has no idea how motivated I am to prove myself to him. We can have a real life together.
I just have to make it happen.
Thirty-Five
Gavin
May
The playoffs are a thrilling, grueling experience for everyone who works for the Bruisers. That’s because everything that happens during those tacked-on weeks is handled a little differently than during the regular season. Ticket sales, travel, transportation—it’s all done on the fly.
There are new faces in the locker room, too, as extra players are called up from the minors to practice with the Brooklyn coaches, just in case our top team suffers injuries during the race for the cup.
I love my job, but the pace is overwhelming.
Management knows that, though, which is why they treat the whole staff to a catered lunch the day after that first victory.
I’m eating a world class fish taco and chatting with Henry when the team’s General Manager walks up to greet us. “Hey, Henry. Any new issues I should know about after last night’s game?” Hugh Major is an imposing man in his mid-fifties, with a shaved head and broad shoulders. His voice is deep and commanding, with a steely edge that probably makes the rookies quake.
“My report will be on your desk this afternoon,” he says. “I’m waiting on MRI results for a sore knee, but I don’t anticipate any nasty surprises.”
“Excellent!” the GM crows. “Gavin, we haven’t properly met,” he booms, offering a hand to me. “Have you settled in? I know we’re a lot to take on. But it’s great that you've been able to give Henry some crucial backup.”
“I’m doing my best,” I say, setting my plate down so I can shake his hand. “The learning curve is steep, but you have a great group of people here.”
“Gavin is being modest,” Henry says. “The guys love him. The women’s team would like to steal him. I interview guys all the time, but when I interviewed Gavin, I knew he was special. It’s rare to find someone who has a deep understanding of anatomy as well as impressive communication skills. We’re so lucky he said yes to joining us.”
“That is a really nice thing to say.” My face is on fire now. “If you could give that same speech to my mother-in-law, that would be helpful.”
The GM laughs. “I know that feeling. We’re never quite good enough for their precious daughters, right?”
“Her son in this case,” I say quickly. “But yeah.”
His eyes widen only slightly. “Oh, sorry. Stupid assumption on my part.” He claps me on the arm. “Thanks for joining the organization, Gavin. The manager’s office is always open. Is there anything we can help you with during the postseason?”
Yeah. Please don’t trade Hudson Newgate. “No, sir. Things are going well in the training room.”
“Wonderful,” the big man booms. “You’ve met my assistant, Heidi Jo?”
“He sure has!” Heidi Jo pops around his square body to join our group. “Boss, you should know that Gavin has a wicked backhand at the ping-pong table. Be careful how you place your wagers. Now Hugh—you have a call in fifteen minutes. Henry—here’s the receipt for the supplies you ordered.” She passes a sheet of paper to my boss. “And Gavin, this arrived for you this morning, by courier.”
She hands me another sealed envelope, just like the one my tickets arrived in last night. This time I’ll withhold my panic. But two couriered envelopes in one week is a lot of high-level mail. So I make my excuses, grab a can of seltzer water for the road, and retreat downstairs to Henry’s office, where I tear it open.
The letter inside is from the Brooklyn Academy of Arts. And it’s very confusing.
Dear Mr. Gillis,
We are pleased to recognize your Gold Circle Membership to the Brooklyn Academy of Arts. Enclosed, please find our program of events for the current year. Your Gold Circle Membership entitles you to fifty percent off and priority registration for either one adult class or a children’s summer day camp.
Your assistant mentioned that the day camp was in your plans, so please let us know before May 30th which program that is, and your camper’s name and age. Priority registration ends on June 1st, and we wouldn’t want your family to miss out.
Warmly,
Judith McPhee, Director of Membership
Wait, what? My assistant?
I pull out my phone and dash off a text to Reggie. Did you do this?
My sister feels guilty about abandoning us this summer to go on tour. And she knows I’m worried about my summer plans.
Do what? she asks, and I send a scan of the letter. No way, is her quick response. I’m broker than you. Didn’t you tell me the membership costs more than two thousand dollars?
That’s all true.
Looks like Hudson’s work, she writes. That man is trying to make a statement.
Hudson? I try to remember if I ever mentioned this particular organization to him, and I realize I must have babbled about my summer childcare options at some point.
What the hell did he do?
I leave Henry’s office and head straight for the weight room, where some of the team is putting in an off-day workout. Hudson isn’t there. But then I spot him on the mats in the stretching alcove—just like on my first day at work.
“Newgate,” I snap. “Can I have a word?”
I don’t even give him a chance to argue, I just reverse my tracks back toward Henry’s office. But I hear his footsteps following me before I duck into the small space and fold my arms defiantly.
“Problem?” he asks as he steps inside. A smile is playing at the corners of his mouth.
“What is this?” I hiss, waving the paper in front of him.
He takes it. “Looks like you got Jordyn into that summer program after all. She’ll enjoy it.”
“Hudson! You can’t do this. It was, like, thousands of dollars to join the Gold Circle.”
He shrugs. “It’s a charity, Gavin. I get a tax deduction, yeah? And what’s done is done—I can’t call up the charity and ask for my money back. That wouldn’t be nice.”
“But…” I let out a hot sigh. “I would have figured something out. I could have handled it.”
He puts both hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eyes with that wide brown gaze. “Of course you would have. That was never the issue. But Jordyn’s fancy friends like this camp, yeah? Now she can go be with her friends. It wasn’t easy for her to make them.”
Maybe it’s the feeling of his warm grip on my lonely body, or the fact that he’s right. But all the fight seeps out of me. “Hell. She’ll love it. Thank you.”
Still, his face falls. “I didn’t do it to make you feel bad, Gav. I just wanted to ease your mind about August. I wanted you to be able to tell your monster-in-law that Jordyn was going to the best summer program in Brooklyn.”
“Oh, I will definitely be mentioning that.” Just the idea cheers me up a little bit. “I hate that you had to bail me out, though. I moved Jordyn here without a plan.”
“I didn’t bail you out.” He releases my shoulders and slaps me on the back. Then he pushes the door to Henry’s office all the way closed, and wraps me into a hug. “Look, I’ve never been a parent,” he says as I take a deep, comforting breath against his shoulder. “But isn’t parenting just, like, constructing a parachute on the way down? If it were easy, there wouldn’t be so many experts.”
That sounds eerily close to something Eddie might say. But I don’t tell him that, I just tighten my arms around him instead. “Thank you. It’s still a lot of money.”
“I have a lot of money,” he points out. “And a lack of ways to show you that I’m serious about us. So just let me have this one.”
“Okay, but rein it in from here on out,” I mumble, trying to convince myself to let go of him.
“Does that mean I can’t send you tickets to game five?”
I think about it for a half second as I finally step back. “No way. I want to watch you win.”
He smiles, and starts to say something else, but the doorknob turns suddenly.
I guess it’s true what they say about professional hockey players—they have excellent reflexes. In that split second, Hudson leaps back from me like I’m on fire. By the time Henry’s face clears the doorway, Hudson is a healthy distance away.
“Hey, gents,” Henry says with a frown. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” Hudson says tightly. He looks rattled. “Just having a chat. Later, guys.” Then he leaves so fast there’s practically a vapor trail behind him.
“Anything up with him?” Henry asks, hooking a thumb in the direction of Hudson’s departure.
“No,” I say, even as my heart quakes.
Even though I understand why Hudson’s been hiding for years, it still sucks to see him go cold like that.
And now I have to think fast. “His, uh, dad is pushing him to pick a nutritionist to work with this summer, and so I googled a few of them for him.”
“Oh, interesting,” Henry says, putting his coffee cup down on his desk. “I’ve heard that his dad is pushy as fuck. Some players like that style of high-energy hustle. But I’m not sure Hudson ever had a choice. What does your afternoon look like?”
“Um…” I’ve got whiplash again, which happens so often when I’m dealing with Hudson. “Working with rookies in the weight room. Taking inventory of our supplies.”
“Sounds good,” Henry says, shaking the mouse of his computer. “If we’re short of anything, rush the order to Heidi Jo.”
“Will do.”
That night I’m just getting into bed when my phone rings. And it’s Hudson calling.
“Hey,” I answer, glancing instinctively to my right. “Are you just on the other side of this wall?” My room is so small that I can put one foot on the floor and knock my knuckles three times against the plaster.
A moment passes with nothing but a creak of floorboards. And then I hear the same tap tap tap against the bedroom wall. “So close, and yet so far.” He sighs. “My fault, of course.”
“Oh come on. The universe deserves some blame for this one. Not your fault that we stumbled into each other in a bar four months ago.”
“Still.” He clears his throat. “I called because I’m not happy with the way I reacted today. When Henry came in.”
“Oh.” I try to think of what else to add, but I can’t. It hurt me to see him leap away from me like that. But I’m not going to say so, because he already knows.
“I told you that I wasn’t conflicted about my sexuality,” he says quietly. “That I’m not ashamed. But I’ve been trying to hide myself for so long. I don’t know how to stop.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I’m sure.”
“But I’m going to learn,” he says. “I have to get through the playoffs. And then I have to go to L.A. for a few weeks to work with some fitness guru my father loves.”
“Okay,” I say patiently. He’d mentioned that before.
“July, though.” His voice perks up. “The team will do a bunch of contract renewals over the summer, and I’m hoping to get one of them. And when the ink is dry, that’s when I sit down with the team and say—guys, there’s something you should know about me. That’s my plan—go straight in. No warning management, no PR huddle. I’m going to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Wow,” I whisper. Because I can picture it. The guys sitting around in the dressing room, and Hudson standing there with a serious expression in his brown eyes. The team will listen. They’ll give him what he needs—their attention and support. I know they will. “That could be life-changing for you.”
“I know!” He actually laughs. “And then we can navigate the problem of your conflict of interest at work. You and I can sit down with Henry, if that’s okay with you.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Yeah, I could do that. He might help us find a work-around. I actually, uh…I looked into switching to the women’s team.”
“Really? That never occurred to me.”
“Well, don’t get too excited. Their season is so much shorter than the men’s that the job wouldn’t pay me a living wage. I’d have to get a second job…”
Hudson lets out an unhappy grunt. “No way. Okay, so that’s not the answer. But we’ll think of something.”
The fact that he wants to fills me with hope. “Be well, okay? You should sleep now.”
“You could come over and kiss me good night,” he says in a flirty voice.
“Hudson…”
“Kidding!” I can feel his gravelly chuckle in my belly. “Good night, hottie. I’ll go to sleep now, so I can score some more goals for you tomorrow night.”
“I’ll be watching,” I promise.
We hang up, and I lie down in bed and think of him lying in the bigger bedroom on the other side of the wall.
Some day maybe we’ll take a sledgehammer to it and break that wall down.
I register Jordyn for the camp, and then show her the welcome letter.
“Oh Daddy, really?” she squeaks happily. “I get to go? To Bella and Lila’s camp?”
“That’s right. But now it’s your camp, too.” This year, anyway. I don’t tell her that Hudson helped us. On the one hand, I feel like a jerk for taking all the credit. But I don’t know how I’d even explain it.
He’s busy, anyway. Brooklyn wins game two and then loses game three, in Philly. They stay down there, too, gearing up together for game four.
Hudson has shone in every game, though. It’s not overkill to say that he’s dominating. One sports writer even put it like this: Hudson Newgate has been a shining star of Brooklyn’s deep defensive bench.
I’m thrilled for him. He’s finally getting the attention he’s worked so hard for.
On the evening of game four, another courier arrives at my door. This time there’s a box with a cheesecake from a nearby Italian restaurant. Plus three tickets to game five—even Reggie gets a seat.
Dreaming of you, says the ticket envelope. I hide it in my sock drawer, like a teenager with a crush.
Then I text him my thanks for the cheesecake and the tickets.
That restaurant is my favorite, he replies. Have you been there?
Nope.
How about I make a reservation for two, for the week before preseason games start? By then I will have made my big announcement, and we’ll have had a chance to talk to Henry.
My heart bounces around inside my chest. Sounds like a fun date.
That will be my happy thought, he says. That and everything that happens AFTER dinner…
