Page 17 of Gross Misconduct

I shrug my shoulders, exhausted all over again. “I don’t have one, I guess. I spent it all on hookers and blow.”

“Jack,” he growls.

“Sorry. Sex workers and blow.”

“You think this is funny? You think life is one big joke?” He gets right in my face. “Well, I got a great one for you. A real humdinger. Okay, picture it: this hotshot rookie rides the bench most of the season because he can’t outshine a center who’s pushing forty. When he finally gets called up to play, his first chance to show his coaches and the fans what he’s made of…he accidentally passes the puck to his opponent, who then scores the winning goal.” Dad lets out a barking laugh tinged with acid. Despite the loud chortle, there’s no joy on his face. “What do you call a guy who sinks his career in under a minute and ten seconds? Fifteen years of hard work down the tubes.”

I ball my fists and do everything I can to hold in a reaction. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

“I don’t know about you, but I call him son.”

“What do you call a player who thinks he’s destined for greatness but can’t even make it out of high school hockey?”

“You watch your damned mouth, boy.” Dad gets right in my face, jaw just as tight.

Imagine working with someone you can’t stand. Now imagine that person is your father. Is it any wonder that I’m regularly hungover? I can’t be around Dad without frustration bubbling under both of our surfaces.

“You’ve never taken a hit like I took back then. It was a sucker hit from a real asshole, some hot shit trying to prove himself. Messed my shoulder up real good.” Dad rubs his shoulder for effect. I’ve known lots of hockey players with shoulder problems, so I know he’s not faking it. But it was over twenty fucking years ago.

“I could’ve been drafted. And if I was, I wouldn’t have let myself fade into oblivion,” he spits out. Family really knows how to jab you to inflict the most pain with the least number of words.

Toby, the assistant manager, marches up to us. He doesn’t have to wear the apron. He gets to dress business casual, his shirt and pants perfectly pressed. He has a smarmy smile and well-coifed hair that lets everyone know he’s counting down the days until he gets promoted into a corporate role and can leave this shitty store in this shitty town.

“Gross Senior and Gross Junior. Good morning!” Toby’s utter fakeness is so yucky it makes me second-guess if I’m actually attracted to men. “There was a spill in the garden center. One of the trees fell over, knocked into a display of pots. In the future, we need to be more careful about how closely we stock items.”

He watches Dad until he utters an apology.

“Yeah, I was just following the display plan sent by corporate,” Dad said, never one to admit fault. Ever.

“Can you guys go clean it up?”

“Sure thing,” Dad says.

“Excellent.” Toby looks me up and down, notes my coat in my hands. “Did you just get here, Jack?”

“He’s been here. He was cold. Needed his jacket from the back room,” Dad says. I nod along.

“It’s a cold one. Hopefully spring gets here soon.” Toby gives us a wave and keeps moving, typing away on his phone.

Dad and I head to the garden center not uttering a word. Hundreds of pieces of broken pots litter the floor. He curses to himself and shoves the dustpan into my hands.

I squat down while Dad sweeps. His broom stops right before a pile of broken pieces hits the pan.

“What’s that?” He points to my side where Fuentes’s flyer has fallen out of my pocket.

“Nothing. Just some hockey thing.” I toss it atop the dustpan pile.

“What hockey thing?” He leans down and picks it up. He immediately starts skimming it, his broom hanging slack against his chest.

“It’s nothing.” I collect the pot pieces with my hands. “Fuentes and Miller are putting together a team for this amateur adult hockey league. They asked me to join, but I don’t think I have the time to commit.”

Dad snorts, something close to a genuine laugh from him. The sound and reaction is so unexpected I have to do a double take.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just you playing hockey again.”

The words sear into my skin. “I said I’m not doing it.”

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