Page 101 of Gross Misconduct

We skate back to our respective teams. My teammates openly gawk at me, likely full of questions. But this isn’t a cracker barrel session. We have a fucking hockey game to win.

“All right. Let’s get back out there!” I yell, suddenly finding myself overcome with all the good juju. My teammates cheer back, our energy going through the roof.

We charge onto the ice with renewed vigor. The ref blows the whistle, and we’re back. We are so back.

The rest of the period is a rush of excitement. Every player, Comeback and Blade, is firing on all cylinders. I fire off a crisp pass to Fuentes who gets the puck in the slot and nails a shot right past the goalie. A few minutes later, Miller and I set up a give-and-go that leaves the defender flat-footed, and Miller buries the puck on the resulting shot.

With five minutes left, I crash the net, scooping up the rebound and jamming it into the open side before the goalie can recover.

“Someone’s gotten their mojo hack,” Fuentes says. “If we can score one more goal, we can tie this thing and beat them in overtime.”

In the final minutes of the game, it quickly becomes the Griffin and Jack show. The rink is electric, Griffin and I going head-to-head like gladiators on ice. Every rush, I’m blazing down the boards, only to be met by Griffin on defense, who anticipates my every move, shutting down lanes with precision. When he manages a clean break, I chase him down, forcing a turnover with a perfectly timed poke check. We push each other to the brink—one setting up brilliant plays, the other thwarting them with sheer will and skill. Each moment is a showcase of grit, talent, and unrelenting determination that has the arena on the edge of their seats.

This is the best hockey I’ve ever played in my whole fucking life. Griffin and I are playing on a different level, turning this grizzly sport into a beautiful ballet.

I spin past Griffin, raise my stick, and take my shot just as the buzzer goes off. The puck launches through the air, straight at the goal, hurtling like an asteroid about to wipe out the dinosaurs.

Instead of the satisfying ding of the bell, I hear the snap of the Hank’s glove closing shut. Even he looks at his glove in shock. The arena goes dead silent. He slowly opens his hand, revealing to everyone the puck.

The crowd goes wild. The Comebacks scream and race past me. They raise Hank and carry him around the ice. Pure joy radiates off them.

I skate back to my team, not feeling as dejected by the loss as I thought. By the end, I gave it my all as did every man out there.

“Hey, we played like fucking kings,” Fuentes says. “That last quarter was some of the best hockey I’ve ever seen.” He pounds my fists. “Thank you for bringing it.”

“Glad you could get your mind cleared,” Miller says, eyeing Griffin.

“Can’t wait to meet your new guy.” Fuentes nudges my elbow.

I skate onto the ice where the Comebacks continue to gush over their victory. They immediately skate up to us and begin shaking hands, telling us what a great game we played and meaning it. The Comeback wingers gush to Miller and Fuentes about their plays. It’s a mutual love fest.

I skate over to Dad, his eyes misty.

“That was incredible, Jack,” he says. “Fuck the NHL for dropping you.”

“Thanks.” It’s odd hearing Dad be so effusive. “Hey, I didn’t mean what I said the other night. About not loving you.”

He gives a nod, his jaw tight.

We have a quiet moment, not sure where to go from here. But I hope this is step one in a new era of our relationship.

“I think someone wants to congratulate you.”

Griffin comes up to me and holds his hand out for a shake. I take it and skate us to center ice. His skin is red with sweat. The white of the ice gives this an ethereal moment.

“Good game,” he says. “You almost had it.”

“It’s okay. I still feel like a winner.”

I pull him to my lips for a hot, victorious kiss. Losing has never been this triumphant.

33

GRIFFIN

We celebrate our victory at Stone’s Throw Tavern. The Comebacks take over two big tables by the window, the snowy mountains just beyond us. People keep coming up to congratulate us. It’s even better than a victory in our high school days because we could go out to drink rather than sneaking alcohol in someone’s basement.

But rather than going over the game, relishing highlights from our thrilling match, my teammates only want to talk about one thing.

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