The new guy, p.8
The New Guy, page 8
No, it’s a terrible idea. I’m in a dark mood as I pack the following afternoon. Just what I need—more alone time with Gavin. It’s hard to look a guy in the eye after you’ve had dirty dreams about him.
When I walk out onto the sidewalk, though, I’m surprised to find Jordyn standing beside him.
“Hey, Hudson!” she calls happily. “Are you going to win in Florida?”
“I’m going to try. Are you coming, too?”
She shakes her head. “No. I want to, but it’s a work trip. And Daddy promised he isn’t going to Disney World.”
I meet Gavin’s eyes, and it’s hard not to smile. “He’s right—there’s no Disney on this trip at all. Just the rink and the hotel.”
She looks up at me with a disbelieving squint. “Does the hotel have a pool, though?”
“Um, probably not,” I lie. “We’d be too busy to go to a pool anyway.”
“Bummer.”
“You know it.”
Just then, a shiny SUV pulls up and a driver gets out. I think it’s our car, so I lift my bag.
But nope. The back door opens to reveal a silver-haired woman in pearls and a dress. “Jordyn! There’s my girl.”
“Hi, Grandma!” she rushes over for a hug.
“Careful,” the woman says, stepping back. “This coat is camel.”
“Camel?” Jordyn asks, her eyes wide. “I didn’t know you can make a coat out of that.”
The woman smiles, but I’m not a fan. Who wears a fancy coat to hang out with a little kid? “Darling, where is your overnight bag?”
“It’s here,” Gavin says. “Hello Eustace. Good trip down from Boston?”
“It was perfect,” she says. “No trouble at all.” She stops and gives Gavin an appraising look. Then her eyes move to me. “Who is this? A boyfriend?”
My blood stops circulating.
“No!” Gavin sputters. “He’s…”
“Our neighbor!” Jordyn says. “He’s a hockey player! He signed my jersey!”
“Oh. I see.” Her eyes slide away from me dismissively. “Does Jordyn have another pair of shoes? We’re going to the ballet.”
Gavin frowns. “She wears those with everything. You didn’t mention the ballet.”
“It’s no matter.” She waves a hand. “Get in the car, darling.”
“Wait wait wait.” Gavin holds his hands out. “Where is my goodbye?”
The little girl skips back over to her father and they say their goodbyes, and I look away.
Another car slides to a halt in the street, my name showing on a placard in the window. I hurry over and put my bag into the trunk. Then I slide onto the back seat.
“LaGuardia?” the driver asks.
“In a second,” I say tightly. “We’re waiting for him.”
It only takes another minute until Gavin joins me. His daughter’s car pulls away first. He tosses his bag into the trunk and climbs in.
The car glides down Henry Street and turns toward the airport before Gavin says, “I’m sorry about that,” he says in a low voice. “Her assumption…”
“It was nothing,” I whisper.
“Yeah, but…” He clears his throat. “It didn’t have a thing to do with you. She is always just waiting for me to fuck up somehow. Lose my job. Date a loser. Something she can use as leverage.”
“I think you just called me a loser.”
“No! It was just an example! I…” He glances sideways at me. “Oh, you’re joking.”
I smile. “Yes, I’m joking.” Although my heart has begun to race nonetheless. In another life, I’d be thrilled to be mistaken for Gavin’s boyfriend.
But in this life, I can’t have anyone guess that about me. Ever. So my greatest fantasy is also my greatest fear.
The car accelerates onto the highway, in the direction of the airport. And the start of a two game road trip, where Gavin will be with us constantly for a few days.
I cannot let it affect me.
I already chose my path. I just have to stick to it.
Eleven
Gavin
When it’s time to board the jet, I hang back and wait for the players to go first. They probably have favorite seats, and a pecking order. I don’t want to step on any toes.
I notice that Jimbo, the equipment manager, does the same thing. He’s a friendly kid a couple of years younger than I am. After the last player boards, he nods toward the jetway. “Shall we?”
The plane is luxurious—with the generous seats you’d find in business class, and upholstery in the team colors. I sit next to Jimbo, and after the plane takes off, I enjoy an Indian style chicken curry that’s better than anything I’ve ever eaten on a flight before.
As night falls, the lights dim. Some of the players sleep or watch movies on their tablets. And there’s a loud poker game at a table in the back.
I spend the flight wondering what Jordyn is doing with her grandparents in Manhattan, and worrying. There’s no reason for me to think that she isn’t being well cared for. But I have not spent a night away from Jordyn in over two years, and I feel unsettled.
I took this trip for a reason, though. When Henry offered it to me, I saw the date and realized that it was good timing on a number of levels. Eddie’s parents would have Jordyn’s company, which they crave.
And I’d be too busy—taping up ankles and knees—to remember that four years ago tomorrow was my wedding day.
When we deplane, there’s a bus ready to take us to the hotel. I take a seat next to Heidi Jo, the manager’s assistant.
“Do you mind if I make a quick phone call?” I ask her. “It’s my daughter’s bedtime.”
“Go for it,” she says. “I don’t mind.”
When I call Eustace’s phone, Jordyn picks up. “Daddy! Are you in Florida? Is it pretty?”
“It’s dark,” I tell her. “And I’m on a bus. How is the hotel?”
“Pretty,” she says. “Fancy. The juice was in a wineglass, and the carpet is swirly.”
“Five stars! Are you going to the ballet tomorrow?”
“Yes! But…” She drops her voice to a whisper. “Grandma wants us to go to a salon first.”
Uh-oh. “Maybe I should talk to her. There’s nothing wrong with your hair.” She hates having it cut, and I hate arguing about it. So what if it’s a little shaggy?
“She says it’s too long, and I would look so cute with layers. What are layers?”
“Baby, I have no idea. Hold on.” I turn to Heidi Jo. “Any idea what layers are in hair? My daughter needs to know.”
Heidi Jo beams. “Layers are just a fancy way of cutting the ends of your hair to give it more shape. It’s not a big deal.”
“Thanks.” I return the phone to my ear. “Did you hear that?”
“Yeah.” My daughter sighs. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Agreed. But you do not have to get your hair cut if you don’t want to. Let me talk to Grandma and I’ll tell her.”
Jordyn thinks this over. “No, it’s okay. I like going places with Grandma.”
“Are you sure?” My chest feels suddenly, horribly tight. She shouldn’t have to navigate this alone. I just want to get back on the plane and go right home again.
“I’m cool,” she says, a phrase she’s picked up from my sister. “I get to see a ballet.”
“Okay.” I swallow hard. “I love you. So much.”
“Love you, Daddy!”
After we hang up, I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I should have stayed in Brooklyn. My mother-in-law is a steamroller.”
“That does sound awkward. I’ve been lucky—my in-laws are more laid-back than my actual family.”
“Winning.” I give her a fist bump.
The hotel, when we arrive, is sleek and luxurious. My room has a giant king-sized bed, and a balcony with a view of the darkened everglades.
So that’s where I go, leaning on the railing, checking out the wide, flat horizon against the nighttime sky. Standing there in the warm breeze, I try very hard not to think about Eddie, and the joy on his face when he slipped a gold band onto my finger.
After our wedding, I used to stare at that ring sometimes, even though it made me feel vain. Jewelry had never been my thing, but I treasured that ring, and everything that it represented. With all my love for Gavin was inscribed on the inside of the band.
I’d never expected to get married. Eddie had shocked me by getting down on one knee by the fire pit in his backyard one night after Jordyn was asleep in her toddler bed. Even when he asked “will you marry me?” I almost demanded that he repeat the question.
Nobody—except maybe my sister—had ever loved me the way Eddie did, warts and all. My parents spent my entire childhood trying to mold me into someone like my father—a driven man without a sense of humor. They told me I lacked focus. That I lacked ambition. That I was too easily distracted. And when I came out to them at eighteen, it only got worse. It was like a confirmation of their worst fears.
Like I was some kind of alien they’d been sent by mistake.
But Eddie chose me. He looked at this messy, distracted, fun-loving guy I’d become and said—that’s the one for me. He called me “wild-hearted” instead of distracted. He called me “energetic” instead of unfocused. “I love your creativity. You are never boring,” he’d said.
Eddie, on the other hand, was all the things my parents wanted in a son. He was focused and quiet and rational. He was a doctor, for fuck’s sake. But he was also the kindest man I’d ever met. He was spontaneous, too, once he trusted you.
He was basically a perfect human, although my parents never met him. They didn’t approve of me, my sexuality or my marriage. They didn’t attend our small wedding at a ski resort in the White Mountains.
Eddie’s parents did, though, even if they didn’t approve of me. Eustace never accused me to my face of being a gold-digger. But she did tell me that I was too young for Eddie. And that my post-grad program in athletic training was frivolous.
Nothing could take away my happiness, though. We had a fun wedding weekend, with everyone skiing—including Jordyn. She was our ring bearer at our ski-lodge ceremony. At three years old, she made it down the aisle without losing our rings, and then spent the rest of the ceremony perched on Eddie’s hip.
When the officiant had said, “you may kiss your husband,” Eddie had kissed me, and then Jordyn had cried out “me too!” to a round of laughter. In our wedding album, there’s a photo of Eddie and me kissing either side of her round face.
After Eddie’s death, I still wore my ring. I took it off only to do dishes, or to shower. There were exactly two places I was willing to put it down—the kitchen windowsill, and the medicine cabinet.
But then, during the difficult winter after Eddie’s death, I took Jordyn skiing at the same resort where we were married. I guess my hands got cold, and the ring slipped off one of the dozens of times that I took off my gloves to help five-year-old Jordyn with her gear.
When I got home that night, it was just gone. I called the resort, frantic, and gave them a complete description, down to the inscription inside the band. They didn’t find it. I went back myself the following week and looked around, by the lifts, but no such luck.
It was just gone. Like my husband.
New Hampshire gave me Eddie, and then it took him away again. He chose me, and then he left me, and that’s just the way it is.
Life isn’t fair. The best you can do is enjoy it while it lasts.
I take a deep breath of the salty Florida air. And I try to do just that.
Twelve
Gavin
“Ice time!” Jimbo says as he refills the last of a dozen water bottles and sets it into the caddy. “You need anything last minute?”
“Don’t think so. But thanks.” The day has been a ten-hour blur, and we’re just getting started.
Jimbo and I arrived at the arena in the morning to set up. Then the players arrived for their morning skate, which meant that I taped elbows, knees, shoulders and ankles. I massaged stiff muscles and handed out ice packs.
Then, after lunch, Jimbo and I headed back to the arena to set up for the second wave. Before gearing up, players do a lot of stretching out and body-activating exercises. So I ran laps between the trainer’s table and the stretching mats. I re-taped every single elbow, knee, shoulder and ankle that I’d seen earlier in the day.
Then, when the athletes moved into the dressing room to put on their skates, I checked and rechecked all my gear for the game. I’ve prepped several different kinds of ice packs. I’ve got pain relievers and glucose tabs and various antibiotic creams and sprays. I’ve got multiple kinds of tape, bandages, gauze and gloves.
I’ve given out protein bars in four different flavors, energy drinks and gallons of water. My table is ready for intermission adjustments. My on-bench bag is packed.
“Let’s go!” Jimbo says, shouldering a dozen hockey sticks. “Best seats in the house, man. Metaphorically speaking. We can’t actually sit down.”
I’m probably too nervous to sit down anyway. I grab my emergency kit and follow him through the dressing room, where the last of the players are filing out into the tunnel beyond.
That’s when the roar of the crowd hits us. Man, that is loud. And when we reach the end of the tunnel, I look up at the rows of seats. And up, and up. I’ve been to rock concerts with smaller crowds.
So this is what they mean by the big leagues.
“This way,” Jimbo says as he steps onto the freshly resurfaced ice.
I follow him. And even though I’m wearing special grips on my shoes, I still say a little prayer. Please, Lord, let me not fall down in front of fifteen thousand people.
Meanwhile, forty-six warriors wearing pads and blades on their feet fly by at high speed. Yeah, this isn’t intimidating at all.
But there’s no time for nerves. Before I’m ready, the audience rises for the national anthem. Soon, it’s game time. The ref drops the puck, Trevi snaps it to Drake, and off they go.
Watching from the bench is nothing like watching on TV—everything is louder and faster. I can hear every grunt, every chirp and every swish of steel against ice.
When people say that hockey is a physically brutal game, they’re not kidding. No wonder I’m so busy in the treatment room. The stress on players’ bodies is intense. Hockey requires rapid-fire lateral muscle movement, explosive acceleration and herculean core strength.
Our boys keep the battle mostly in our offensive zone for the first several shifts. As the minutes rack up, Brooklyn makes several attempts on goal. But Florida’s keeper is having a good night, and we can’t seem to put anything in the basket.
My job is to watch the hits closely. If anyone gets injured, it will help me to see the play unfold. Like when Trevi gets smushed against the boards by a monster of a defenseman, and gives his shoulders a couple of awkward shrugs after the hit.
Hell.
As he returns to the bench, I sidle up behind him. “Bad hit? Any damage?”
After a squirt of water from one of the bottles, he retracts his shoulder blades, as if testing them out. “No real damage. Just feels like my spine is a little out of whack.”
“Lift your elbows a couple inches.” When he does, I bend over and grasp him under the arms in an awkward hug from behind. “Deep breath in. Then out.” When he exhales, I lift him up off the bench. His spine makes a series of pops as it releases in several places.
“Whoa. Cool. Thanks.”
“Dude,” says Hudson, who’s sitting beside him. “Trevi’s an inch taller after that.” Then he rises suddenly and vaults over the boards for his shift.
I watch him go, and it’s an awesome sight. Powerful muscles send him flying forward, like a Porsche accelerating on the autobahn. Then he spins effortlessly around to skate backward at high speed in his opponent’s face.
Watching the spectacle from point-blank range, I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time. He’s a fierce mix of raw power and beauty. As if I’m watching him do what he was put on this earth to do.
I’m so impressed.
All our boys skate hard, but the first period ends scoreless. We troop back to the locker room, where I spend a sweaty fifteen minutes stretching muscles and re-taping wrists. I check the app on my phone for a look at Drake’s blood sugar, which looks good.
Then it’s back out there for another bruising period. At the six-minute mark, Castro gets a goal, and we all celebrate. On the next play, though, a Florida player catches Newgate in the chin with the blade of his stick.
“Foul! High sticking!” I yell, as if the ref were looking for my opinion.
Luckily, I’m not the only one who saw it. The whistle blows. I see Newgate raise a hand to his face, and come away with blood.
Something twists inside me at the sight of it. I’m not squeamish, but I don’t like to see someone I admire bleeding.
The whole bench cheers, though. And I remember that the penalty for drawing blood is a four minute bench minor, instead of two.
Newgate is smiling when he skates back to the bench for the power play. But I pull an antiseptic wipe out of my bag and lean over him to blot away the blood.
He grabs the wipe out of my hands and presses it to his skin himself. “I got it,” he snaps.
I take a quick step back.
Henry warned me about this, actually. Some players don’t want you to touch them during a game unless it’s absolutely necessary, while others don’t mind. He’d said, “It comes down to preference, and how they manage their focus during games.”
So I’m not offended, although I would have liked to get a better look at the cut. I guess it can wait until the next intermission.
Florida scores, unfortunately. Then each team scores again, giving us a tie game as the second buzzer sounds.
I’m running on fumes during the second intermission, taping limbs and dabbing at cuts and stretching out O’Doul’s shoulder.
