Page 32 of Gross Misconduct

Bill comes over with an ice scraper. I don’t take it from him. Instead, I start laughing. A low, maniacal, crazy person chuckle ripples from deep inside my chest out of my mouth, causing my teammates to take a half-step back.

“Gentlemen,” I say. “Looks like the Blades want a prank war.”

11

JACK

I’m jolted awake by Fuentes pounding at my door.

“Dude, we got practice!” he yells.

Shit. I look at my phone and realize I forgot to set my alarm. I roll out of bed and throw on sweatpants and a sweatshirt. I gargle with a cup of mouthwash and meet Fuentes in the hall.

I was never a morning person. Early practices and early flights while I was in the NHL made me perpetually tired. I subsisted on coffee and the adrenaline of play time, when I did get play time.

“Did you forget to set your alarm again?” Fuentes asks as we descend the stairs. I nod yes while swishing mouthwash.

Outside, it’s cold and dark. No surprise for early March. A light dusting of snow covers the cars in the parking lot. Maybe if it was Christmastime, it would be a pretty scene, but by this time of year, I’m so over snow.

I spit my mouthwash into the bushes.

“Hey!” Fuentes says.

“It’s not going to kill the bushes,” I say. The man is very touchy about his property.

We hop into his car where Miller waits in the backseat, eyes closed and exhaling a loud breath.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m getting focused for practice. I’m finding my center so I can play with intention.”

Somehow, the more Zen Miller gets, the more of an animal he is on the ice. We had our first game on Sunday. Miller got thrown into the sin bin twice for checking an opposing player. He let out a stream of F-bombs as the ref pulled him away that would make Samuel L. Jackson blush.

We drive down roads coated with gray slush, the gross comingling of snow and grease. The ugliest part of winter. It kind of reminds me of the goopy shit I covered Griffin’s car with the other day.

“What’s so funny?” Fuentes asks.

I giggle like a damn middle schooler. “Guys, remember when we TPed the Comebacks’ cars?”

They burst into laughter at the memory. It’s like we’re sixteen again, hanging out in our car during lunch period wondering if we should cut the rest of the day. Having a good laugh with your friends is good for the soul. It’s chicken soup for shitheads.

“I’m impressed we got it done so quickly. Teamwork makes the dream work,” Miller says. He pulls out his phone and plays the video we secretly took. The guy dropping to his knees over his Lexus was priceless. I know I want nothing to do with Griffin Harper, but the look of utter shock on his face is somehow adorable. There’s an innocence to it, like a peek at the boy inside the man.

Not that I should be finding anything about Griffin adorable.

“You really went to town on the pickup truck,” Fuentes says. “Wet toilet paper is a pain in the ass to get off.”

“He deserved it for trying to get me booted from the league.” Among his other sins. “His car is fine. His teammates helped him get it off. What’s a season of hockey without some pranks?”

“You think they’ll retaliate?” Miller asks.

“Nah. They’re too scared. They know they can’t top that.” I put my feet up on the glove compartment. Fuentes knocks them off at the stop light.

“How goes the job hunt?” Fuentes asks.

“It’s going.”

“Didn’t you have an interview yesterday?”

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