The new guy, p.3
The New Guy, page 3
His mouth hinges open in an expression of pure horror. “Fuck no. There’s a little kid next door. And a woman. I saw her. Lotsa tattoos. Are you married?”
“No!” I yelp. “That’s my sister.”
He closes his eyes and then shakes his head. Like he hopes I’m not there when he opens them again.
I am, though. I’m just staring up at this attractive man and watching my night go up in flames. “So we’re neighbors?”
“Across the hall,” he barks. “Fuck.”
“Is that so bad?” I have to ask. I’m still clinging to the possibility that my new neighbor doesn’t care that much about our unlucky proximity. “I mean, think of the commute.”
But it’s no good. I can tell by the way his shoulders tense up. And by the way he looks up at the sky and yells “FUCK,” and not in a fun way.
“No need to get ragey,” I mumble. “I guess I’ll just be going.”
He lets out a sigh that carries the weight of total disappointment. I guess I should be flattered. “Look, I’m sorry. But I don’t do pickups. Ever. For so many reasons. But we’re gonna have to forget this happened.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that,” I grumble.
“Okay. Sorry.” He grimaces and looks away. “Fuck,” he says one more time.
And then he abruptly walks off, heading back the way we came. Away from his own home, and away from me.
Stunned at the turn of events, all I can do is watch his muscular ass power walk away from me, up the sidewalk.
“Okay,” Reggie whispers. “Why do you look so flustered?”
We’re seated side by side on my sofa, and Jordyn is finally in bed. She was almost too hyper to sleep. I guess moving to a new city can do that to a girl.
“Well…” I glance at her bedroom door. It’s closed. “I almost did it. I met a guy in a bar. A great guy. And I was three quarters of the way to a hookup.”
Her eyes light up. “Omigod, really? What do you mean almost?”
“He bailed,” I whisper. “It turns out that he lives in this building. On this floor.”
My sister’s mouth flops open so far that I can see her tongue piercing. “Get out of here. Really? There’s only one other apartment on this floor.”
I nod violently. “When we both realized it, he freaked. I mean—hooking up with your neighbor is not super cool, right? Because you have to see each other every time you take out the recycling.” I scrub my hands through my hair. “But his reaction was a little oversized.”
“Oh shit,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Maybe he’s involved with someone. I really doubt it though. He must be, like, super deep in the closet?”
Reggie shakes her head. “I have another theory. That broker you rented from? She wrote something in her note with the keys. Hang on…” My sister pops off the couch and crosses to our messy dining table. We’re at that ugly stage of unpacking where everything is chaos. “Oh, here.” She plucks a sheet of paper out of the mess and returns it to me.
Gavin, welcome to the neighborhood. The Henry Street building houses several Brooklyn Hockey associates already. I’m sure you’ll get a warm welcome!
“Oh yeah.” When I’d been scouting apartments, the broker had told me that the power couple who owns the hockey teams also owns several neighborhood buildings. They only rent them out to people who work for one of their organizations. If you’re on a budget, they’re the best deal in town.
Since I’m most certainly on a budget, I’d asked to see anything in those buildings first. That’s how we ended up here, in a three bedroom apartment that was priced the same as two bedrooms elsewhere.
“I guess it wasn’t as warm a welcome as you’d been hoping for,” Reggie says. And then she snort-laughs.
“Yeah, yeah. This could be bad.” Really bad. I have a prickly feeling at the back of my neck. Are Hudson and I going to work together? Is that the reason he was so horrified to learn that we’re neighbors?
Honestly, it would make me feel better. Hooking up with coworkers is a terrible idea. Maybe he’d figured this out before I did.
It’s better than my other theories—that he’s a cheater. Or that he’s ashamed of his attraction to men.
But now I have to know. I get up and grab my laptop off my bed. Back on the sofa, I open a Google window and search “Hudson Brooklyn Hockey,” since he never told me his last name.
The news article comes up immediately on a sports website, complete with a photo of the guy I was making out with an hour ago. Chicago trades defenseman Hudson Newgate to Brooklyn.
I make a strangled noise, and Reggie grabs the computer out of my hands. “Holy hell. That guy? That hottie right there?”
“Omigod,” I whimper. “He’s a player. That makes no sense. Why was he in the bar when his team was on the road?”
Unless…
I grab my computer back and google: “Hudson Newgate injury.” Yup. Another news item pops up, from an injury roundup a few days ago. Hudson Newgate out for three games for a lower body injury.
“Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit…”
“Breathe,” my sister says.
“Noooooo,” I wail. “Not only do we work together, but I’ll probably be massaging his lower body injury in thirty-six hours.”
She cackles. “Perks of the job. And, wow little brother. I always knew you were cute, but look who can pull a professional athlete in a bar! Go Gavin!”
“Shhh.” I snap the laptop shut, as if that could undo the damage. “You don’t understand. I didn’t know who he was, so I ran my mouth off about the team!”
“You did?” She’s grinning ear to ear, like this is the most charming story she’s ever heard.
“Stop smiling! He asked me what I thought of the defensive pairings. And I said…” I want to die now. “I said I was underwhelmed.”
She giggles.
I hate my sister.
“Oh Gavin! It must not have been that bad, if he still wanted to…” She drops her voice. “…Polish your piston.”
My head drops into my hands, and I let out another moan. “Maybe he was just really horny.”
“Who knew Brooklyn had a queer player? This is fascinating.”
My stomach fizzes with anxiety. “Reggie? You can’t mention this to anyone. He obviously isn’t out.”
“I am a vault,” she says. “But maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe he’s out to his teammates.”
I shake my head. “I doubt it. When I had my interview, I made a point to tell the head trainer that I’m an out gay man. And then he made a point to tell me the team would never discriminate.” I’d really liked Henry, and—up until a few minutes ago—I’d been excited to start this job.
“That’s good, right?”
“Right. But then he said—‘we have out players within the organization.’ And I asked if any of them were men. Because hockey isn’t historically welcoming to queer men. And he said ‘So far the only out athletes are on the women’s team.’”
“Ah.” She bites her lip. “So your new friend has a secret.”
“Sure sounds that way.”
“Well, shit,” she says. “He’s not going to be very happy to see you again, is he?”
“Probably not.”
She gives me a sad look. “I’m sorry, Gav. I hope that doesn’t ruin your enthusiasm for meeting hot guys in bars. Eddie wouldn’t want you to be lonely for the rest of your life, you know.”
I know she’s right. But that doesn’t make this any less awkward.
Reggie retreats to her tiny bedroom after that.
My sister is living rent free with us for six months, until she goes off on tour as the bass player in a punk band. In exchange, she is going to pick Jordyn up from school most days and hang out with her until I get home.
It’s a nice arrangement, even if the place will be a little crowded.
Alone with my thoughts, I lock the front door and tuck myself into bed. I stare at my unfamiliar ceiling and listen to the sounds of New York City beyond these walls.
It occurs to me, as I grow drowsy, that my bedroom shares a wall with Hudson Newgate’s apartment.
I don’t know the layout of his place, but it’s conceivable that we are lying only a few feet away from each other right now.
Just not in the way I’d imagined.
Four
Hudson
As I wipe down the weight bench for my teammate, my phone starts singing “Under My Thumb.”
Shit.
“Whose ringtone is that?” Drake asks with a snicker. “Your dad’s?”
“Good guess. I’d better get it.” My dad is also my agent. And he doesn’t like to be ignored.
“Go ahead,” says Drake. “You aren’t supposed to spot me anyway.”
This is also true, if overly cautious. Nobody wants my hip inflamed before I can skate again. As my phone continues to play The Rolling Stones, I walk into the corridor for a little privacy. “Hey, Dad,” I say, answering when I’m out of earshot.
“Hudson, hey!” His voice is full of jocular enthusiasm that his other clients seem to love. Today, it just makes me tired. “How’s the hip?”
“Better,” I tell him. As if any other answer would be acceptable.
“You taking good care of yourself? Physical therapy? Good nutrition?”
“Yessir.”
“Getting lots of sleep?”
“Yes,” I lie. But it’s not for lack of trying. I’ve spent the last two nights staring at the ceiling, wishing I could sleep on my side. And, fine, thinking about my neighbor. Wondering who he is, and what he thinks of me and my freak-out the other night.
I haven’t run into him, though. Not on the sidewalk, or in the stairwell. And not here in the team headquarters.
But that’s my fear. Our apartments are the only two on our floor. And billionaire couple Nate and Rebecca Kattenberger own the building—as well as the hockey team. So either Gavin or his sister must be a new hire.
Although the job could be anywhere in the Kattenberger empire. They own several companies as well as two hockey teams.
If there’s a God in heaven, I’ll never see him at work.
“You feel ready for tonight’s game?” my father asks.
Here we go. “I’m not playing tonight, Dad.”
“What? Why?” he barks. “They shouldn’t overlook you like this! I'm going to put in a call to Karl…”
“Dad, don’t. I mean—you don’t have to.” I close my eyes and regroup. It's rare for me to push back against the steamroller of Derek Newgate, and it has to be done delicately. “Coach spoke to both the specialist and the athletic trainer this morning. You don't need to worry. He’s on top of this.”
“Hmm.” He mulls this over.
And I wait, like a good son.
My father is a two-time Stanley Cup winning veteran of hockey. And now a very in-demand agent. If he ranked the value of his clientele, I might not even make the top twenty. He knows everyone in hockey, including my coach. They were teammates at some point. He’s well liked, and Coach would probably laugh off his invasive phone call.
But still. Give it a rest, Dad.
“All right. One more game,” he says, as if it were up to him. “You’re taking anti-inflammatories, and icing it?”
“Textbook, I promise. I practically live in that damn ice bath.”
He chuckles. “All right. I know you’re doing the work.”
All I do is work.
“—It's just that four weeks in on a new team is a crappy time to be injured. They need to see you as their new powerhouse on the blue line.”
I lean my head against the wall and let him talk. As if I don’t have all these same thoughts every day.
Even before breakfast.
“—While you’re waiting, don’t slack off. Lots of upper body work. Get yourself to every video meeting.”
Yeah, that's every day of my life.
“You’re going to heal up and settle in. Pretty soon Brooklyn won’t be able to remember how they lived without you.”
“You know it,” I say, because that's my line in this drama. Plus, I want to believe it.
“Chin up, Hudson. You can overcome this.”
“Thanks, Dad.” He’s overbearing as fuck, but we both want the same things. And to his credit, he never expresses what we’re both thinking—that five years bouncing around on different teams is not a good look.
I’m like the dog who’s still looking for a forever home—but people keep returning him to the shelter after a few months. He’s great. Lots of enthusiasm, never pees on the rug, but he doesn’t fit our family.
My father and I sign off, and I wander back into the weight room. Someone else has taken my turn on the bench, and my hip has gotten stiff from standing still for ten minutes, so I head for the mats and stretch.
“Hey, New Guy?” Castro calls. “You got your phone on you? We need some tunes. Something retro? Maybe Santana.”
“Sure,” I say, reaching for my phone. A couple of taps later, and Santana is wailing away on his guitar.
“Thanks, New Guy.”
I give him a friendly salute. But the truth is that I hate that nickname with the fire of a thousand suns. Not that Castro means anything by it—with a name like Newgate, “New Guy” is just low-hanging fruit.
But after four trades in five years, I’m damn sick of being the new guy—and trying to prove myself day in and day out for a new set of faces. It’s exhausting as well as inconvenient. I’ve learned not to sign a long-term lease. I don’t buy a lot of furniture, and I can never own a pet.
Those are just minor inconveniences, though. The grueling part is constantly adapting your style of play to fit in with the new team’s needs. You have to be a sponge—learning your teammates names, nicknames and quirks. Listening to the coach like your job depends on absorbing every word.
Because it does.
I roll back and tuck one knee into my chest, and then massage the opposite hip. The athletic trainers usually help with this, but I haven’t seen one today.
Just as that thought forms in my mind, I hear Henry’s voice out in the corridor. “The men’s weight room is usually about half capacity after morning skate. Some guys want to get in a quick workout, some go right home and take a pregame nap.”
Henry’s giving someone a tour of the facility. And suddenly I’m on high alert, like there’s a noticeable change in the air pressure.
Two men walk through the door, and my heart practically explodes.
Oh no. Oh shit. It’s him. Gavin from the bar. Gavin with the clear gray eyes, and the quick smile. In a Brooklyn polo, with an employee ID clipped to his khakis. That’s the uniform for athletic trainers.
Holy hell. There’s a clipboard hugged under one muscled arm, and I can see my own name on it. Fuck me. This is bad. He’s going to work with the team?
It takes me about zero-point-five seconds to picture him kneeling down on this very mat and lifting my leg in his hands to pin it back against my chest, while I gaze up at his dark blond hair, and that rippling chest that I still want to explore with my tongue.
“Fellas, listen up!” Henry says, clapping his hands together. “I’d like to introduce you to Gavin Gillis. He joins the training staff today as my right-hand man.”
The players all turn to listen, and O’Doul leans down and turns the Bluetooth speaker off.
The sudden silence is deep.
“Thanks, guys,” Henry says. “Gavin joins us as senior training staff. He’s never worked in hockey before, but that doesn’t matter. His last full-time position was at the University of New Hampshire, where he worked with their D1 men’s soccer team, as well as with the women’s tennis team…”
I lose the thread of what Henry is saying, because I’m still staring at Gavin. He stands tall at Henry’s side. He’s wearing the half-smile of someone who’s being forced to hear praise about himself and doesn’t quite know what to do with it. As I watch, he makes eye contact with each player in the room, one at a time.
He gets to me last, though, because I’m on the floor, in the corner. When his eyes find me, he does a quick double take. His surprise is muted, though. On his second pass, he looks directly at me and does the world’s quickest nod.
I forget to breathe, and my vision tunnels.
This can’t be happening. He’s a trainer? He’ll be here every damn day. He knows things about me that nobody else knows.
And if he really wants to be a dick about it, my privacy could be shattered before the puck drops tonight.
Even if he’s not a dick, it’s still going to be awkward.
So fucking awkward.
I force some air into my lungs and try to stem my panic.
But this is bad.
So, so bad.
Five
Gavin
This is the moment I’ve been dreading.
Sure enough, Hudson Newgate is scowling at me from the corner, as if I’ve done something wrong by showing up here.
Sorry, pal. It’s not my fault.
Let the record show that he sat down beside me on that barstool.
Henry drones on, and I try to keep my cool. First days are always awkward. In this job you have to meet new faces all the time, though. You have to gain people’s trust so they’ll tell you their troubles, and also relax when you put your hands on their bodies.
I’m good at my job, damn it. I have every right to be here. Once I settle in, he’ll get used to the idea.
When Henry is finished introducing me, we leave the weight room and settle into the training room. It’s a big operation, and there’s a lot to learn. Athletes wander in and out, and I watch Henry work on knees and ankles. I pull files for each athlete, and make notes, and make conversation.
My head is spinning, but that’s just first day stuff.
Hudson Newgate does not turn up, though. And a trainer on the first day does not have a discreet way to pull an athlete aside for a private conversation. The main training room is a busy place, with multiple conversations in progress at any given moment, and athletes lurking nearby, waiting their turn.
