Page 31 of Gross Misconduct

“Hank can say prick, but I can’t say the f-word?” Des rolls his eyes.

“Can you guys stop talking about me and Jack? Not like there is a ‘me and Jack.’ I don’t want anything to do with Ted Gross’s demon spawn.”

I do another lap to clear my head. When I return to center ice, I scoop the puck away from Des, charge down the ice, and nail a goal on Hank. No matter what happened in my one-on-one showdown with Jack the other day, I still got it.

“F’ the Blades. Long live the Comebacks!” I yell.

* * *

Practice is rigorous and thorough.Bill believes in pushing us hard in order to make us stronger. He compared it to snakes shedding their skin. This might’ve worked when we were teenagers, but now in our forties, I’m finding that my body doesn’t bounce back nearly as well as I’d like. That’s the problem with getting older. In my mind, I still feel eighteen. It’s the rest of my body that’s determined to age.

After getting showered and dressed, the guys and I roll out of the locker room, kids in toe, feeling like a million bucks. We strut down the corridor to the exit, chests big and puffed, imaginary crowds fawning over us. We completed a challenging practice, doing things most guys our age wouldn’t dream of doing. When Jack gets into his forties, I doubt he’ll still be playing hockey.

Why does my mind keep going back to him?

“He’s just one guy,” Bill says as we head for the exit. Can he read my mind? “Jack might be good, but he’s just one guy on a team.”

“He’s not that good,” I say.

“He SUCKS,” Tanner’s son Davy yells.

“Davy. Language,” Tanner shoots back.

“The rest of his teammates are good,” says Hank, walking behind us. “I caught some of their practice. They’ve got the moves.”

“Well, so do we,” Bill shoots back. “We can’t let the Blades get in our heads.” He turns to his daughter Rowan, and they share a nod of agreement. Then Bill turns back to me, his hand on the door. “Any of them.”

I give him a salute. Message received.

Bill pushes open the door. “Fuck me.”

“Bill,” Tanner hisses, nodding at his kids at his side.

But Tanner follows Bill’s eyeline. We all do, and we all have the same reaction.

“Fork me,” Tanner mutters.

His minivan is mummified in toilet paper. As is Hank’s two-seater. As is Des’s Lexus and Bill’s SUV. They are big white puffs in an otherwise empty parking lot.

The guys run to their cars to assess the damage.

“It’s two ply!” Hank and his son Brody rub toilet paper between their fingers.

“What a waste of perfectly good toilet paper, Dad,” says Brody.

“What the…” Bill says, his usually stoic face filled with shock and a bit of horror. But he’s not looking at his car.

He’s looking at mine.

When my eye lands on my truck, it’s as if a pilot light clicks on inside me, releasing a flame of anger.

My pickup truck isn’t merely mummified in dry bath tissue like my teammates’ cars. It’s encased in a thick layer of wet toilet paper stuck to every inch. The wet, half-dried toilet paper has the bumpy look of a vintage popcorn ceiling. It covers my windshield, doors, truck bed, even the side mirrors.

I run my hand across the driver’s side window, the mushy sloop sliding off the car and plopping to the ground. I’d had to wade through dirty diapers and sick kids, and yet the feel of the wet paper on my hand ranks as one of the grossest things I’ve experienced in my adult life.

“Who the hell did this to my beautiful Lexi?” Des says, ready to go full Liam Neeson inTakento protect his car.

“The ringer,” I mutter.

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