Page 3 of Gross Misconduct

“Wecoulddo it without you, but we don’t want to,” Des says. “Honestly, it hasn’t felt the same without you on the ice. Like it used to be. When we were on fire.”

“That was in the twentieth century,” I say, which makes it sound eons ago. It was only the late nineties when we played together. And weren’t the seventies only thirty years ago? I wish. My girls will sometimes ask me questions about life at the turn of the century, and I realize they’re not referring to the 1900s, like they should.

“We still got it.” Bill wraps his knuckles on the boards. Time may’ve passed, but he still cuts an imposing figure in his hockey gear. I’m sure I would, too, but I push that idea out of my head. “I know you still got it, Griff. You were ferocious out there, a fucking animal. We need our defenseman back.”

“You’re forgetting one important part.” I don’t have to gesture. Bill’s already glancing up at my left eye. Quiet descends over my former teammates.

“You made an incredible recovery.” Bill softens his tone slightly. “If you’re able to drive, you’re able to play.”

“It’s not that simple,” I say.

He shrugs, as if maybe it could be. Bill only saw what happened on the ice that day. He only heard about the surgeries and the pain and the blinding headaches that came with the injury. He never had to worry if he’d ever get his vision back. He didn’t feel the anger or heartache of his future going down the drain thanks to one moment on the ice.

“I’ll pass. My hockey days are behind me,” I say firmly. “No more stripping telegrams or homing pigeons or shit like that, okay?”

I step back from the rink before the smell of the ice and the familiar warmth of the lights make me change my mind.

Bill nods, knowing not to push. “Yeah, I get it. I’m just saying, we miss you out here, Griff.” He looks over his shoulder, and the guys nod in agreement.

“Why don’t you come grab a drink with us?” Tanner asks, his eyes shining with their patented kindness. “Just as buddies. No ulterior motive.”

“It’s been forever since we’ve all hung out. Stupid life shit getting in the way.” The fluorescent light bounces off Hank’s pale skin making him look almost translucent.

“One drink,” I say, fully aware of their intentions. But Hank is right. It has been a while since we’ve all hung out. Nobody tells you how lonely the busyness of adulthood can be. The tug of their camaraderie is hard to resist.

The guys cheer. I can’t help but feel a spark of warmth at their reaction, but I don’t let it show.

“I mean it. One damn drink.”

Bill turns back to the guys. “One. Drink,” he repeats firmly. “If any of you try to make Griffin Harper drink a second drink, so help me I will beat. Your. Ass. I’m looking at you, Des.” Bill swivels back to me. “Are we good?”

I shoot him my best fuck-you sneer. I may not be on the team, but that doesn’t stop me from getting shit like any other player.

I love it.

But I’m not suiting up again.

2

GRIFFIN

Some guys decide to join a recreational hockey league to feel the thrill of competition. Others just do it for the drinking.

It’s hard to tell where my old teammates fall on this spectrum.

“To the Comebacks!” Bill says, hoisting his pint glass in the air.

Even though I’m not part of the team, I clink glasses with them. After their practice, we went to Stone’s Throw Tavern, the local watering hole in downtown Sourwood owned by Mitch, our friend with the back-breaking sneeze. It’s just off the main drag, with big windows that overlook the Hudson River. In better weather, I could spend hours in the beer garden communing with nature and my drink.

I take a gulp of my beer.

“Pace yourself, Griffin,” Bill says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Once that drink is gone, you’re cut off.” He turns to the other guys around the table. “Because he’s only having?—”

“One drink,” the guys answer in emphatic unison.

Asshats.

Bill’s face splits with laughter. Back in high school, he took hockey and life just as seriously as me. Now he’s cracking jokes and smiling for no reason. It’s unnerving.

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