Page 34 of Gross Misconduct

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I really tryto focus during practice. I even do some calming breaths when the guys aren’t looking. Perhaps Miller is right, and I need to center myself in order to find the fire. I had it for all those years. Fires don’t just disappear.

Practice goes well for the most part, but I can’t shake the lingering rustiness. I can’t get out of my head. I keep flashing back to the passing debacle from my NHL days, to my coaches’ expressions as they watched me. When I was getting drafted, everyone pretended they loved me. But as soon as I wasn’t useful, I was kicked to the curb.

After practice, we hit the showers. I turn my shower to extra hot, and finally, I find some semblance of calm.

“I’m still laughing at that video,” Fuentes says beside me. “When that guy wiped the TP off his truck? Classic.”

I laugh, too. Griffin had the best reaction. He is a perfect straight man for pranks. Well, not that straight. And that cute smile of his when he probably realized it was me.

Sigh.

No. I will not think about Griffin anymore. Especially while I’m soaping myself down.

“Did he ever say why he cockblocked you?” Fuentes asks.

“I don’t care.” Griffin did a poor job trying to explain, acting like it was no big deal. He was just another person who pretended to like me and then bolted. I shudder with embarrassment as I remember his hand pushing me away. “I can’t wait to kick their ass.”

“It won’t be that hard,” says Fuentes. “They all look exhausted.”

“I almost feel bad about playing them. I don’t want them to throw their backs on the ice,” Miller says.

“They’ll all win gold at the Dad-Bod Olympics.” I laugh to myself, even though Griffin sure gave me a good run on the ice.

I’m the first to leave the shower. I wrap a towel around my waist.

When I strut into the locker room, something feels off in a way I can’t explain. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck without explanation.

I zero in on my cubby, where the white paint of the wall behind it is visible. I push aside my coat to where my clothes are hanging. Or should be hanging.

“What’s up?” Miller walks past me.

“Check your cubby.” I frantically search my cubby, pushing the coat aside again, looking on the shelf above, checking in the space where my shoes sit. My clothes are gone.

“What the fuck!” Miller’s reaction catches up to mine. He throws his coat on the floor, revealing a cubby just as empty as mine.

A piece of paper flutters to the floor. I find the same one on my bench. It’s blank except for a logo at the top.

The Comebacks logo.

Other guys pull similar pieces of paper from their half-empty cubbies.

“Looking for these?” Griffin asks from the locker room entrance, holding up my clothes.

Hank, their goalie, steps out from behind him. His arms are full of jeans and shirts and sweaters. “Guess we’re not that old, huh?”

“What the—” I instinctively cover my junk.

Griffin flashes a wicked smile that makes him look seventeen. “You may be younger, but we’re smarter. Have fun air drying.”

My teammates are shocked in place, searching for some article of clothing to cover themselves with. But I’m ready to fight. A smirk jumps on my face. I love the competition.

“Guys…get ‘em!” I yell.

We charge for the Comebacks.

“You’ll have to catch us first!” Griffin says.

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