Page 22 of Gross Misconduct

Jack skates in a circle around me. “How about we play for it?” He asks loudly enough so guys on both teams can hear.

“For the rink time?” I ask as he nods.

“One-on-one. First one to score, their team can practice today. Loser has to find a new time slot.”

“Deal,” I say without giving it much thought. Sure, Jack was a pro hockey player, but in an alternate world, I could’ve been, too. I can take him.

“Hell yeah! Let’s go Griffdog!” Bill shouts. My teammates join in, bolstering me with support. Jack thinks he’s such hot shit. He’s about to get his ass kicked.

He flashes me one more cocky smirk that gets me funny in the tummy. I clench myself. I’m here to win. No, not win. To wipe the floor with this guy.

The Comebacks and the Blades skate to their respective sides and watch from their team benches, whooping and cheering us on. Jack and I skate to the center of the ice.

“First one to score a goal,” he says.

We shake on it.

I place the puck between us. We knock sticks three times, then we’re off. Or rather, Jack is off. His stick catches the puck so fast it defies physics. Before I can register, he’s zooming down the ice. I break away to catch up to him, pushing off so hard my legs build with soreness, which I ignore. I’ve had no chance to warm up, and my body is still asleep, not to mention this is the first hockey I’ve played since I was eighteen.

But I can still take him.

He pulls his stick back to shoot, taking a few seconds of sweet time, and I swipe the puck away. I bolt to my end of the rink.

A gust of wind rushes through my beard. I don’t get halfway to the goal before Jack is in front of me, slapping my stick away and stealing back the puck. I recover quickly, but he already has the puck in his possession.

I don’t let up. The cheers of my teammates infuse me with power. I skate backward blocking his path. His glinting blue eyes catch on me, transfixing me for half a second I can’t give away, but damn are they gorgeous. Even if they’re narrowed at me.

I keep skating backward trying to wrangle the puck from his stick, but Jack’s too fast with his stick handling, shuffling it like a three-card monte. He tries to skate around me, but he senses I won’t let up.

“You handle that puck well,” I say.

“Not as well as I would’ve handled your cock.”

His blunt admission makes my mind go to averydirty place. The distraction is just long enough for Jack to shoot the puck between my skates and into the goal.

The Blades cheer from the sidelines. The Comebacks not so much.

Jack’s teammates surround him in victory. Between the gap of bodies, I can feel Jack’s eyes on me. They’re staring the sharpest of daggers.

8

JACK

By day, Dominick Miller helps people find serenity as a yoga instructor. Yet on the ice, he is one angry, aggressive motherfucker. I’m glad I play as his teammate and not his opponent.

“Imagine your lungs filling all the way up with air. Breathe in peace and serenity. And then exhale, letting out all the impurities tainting your mind and spirit.” Miller sits cross-legged at the front of the yoga studio, his back perfectly straight. His tight athleisure shorts leave little to the imagination, forcing me to stare at a smudge on the mirror.

“Take this moment to connect with yourself. The balance that you seek on your skates will only come from within.”

I turn to Fuentes, who does the jerk off motion in response. The room quiets with peaceful silence which is broken a second later by our teammate Ian ripping ass.

“It’s okay,” Miller says, not missing a beat. “That is a normal bodily function. It means your body is dispelling negative energy.”

“Well, in that case,” Ian says before ripping off another one.

We all crack up, laughter bouncing off the mirrored walls. Miller clenches his lips and clings to his Zen, though the protruding vein in his neck tells us we’re skating on thin ice.

“And now we get into cat-cow pose,” he says. He instructs us to get on all fours, alternating between arching our back and making it go concave.

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