Page 37 of Gross Misconduct

“On game day!”

“You stole my clothes,” he shoots back.

I grip my steering wheel tight. “That was during practice. I would never prank you on game day and fuck with your juju. Good juju in hockey is sacred.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t know they were taped before you went out. A win for me.” Jack gets quiet when he notices I’m not laughing. “It was a classic hockey prank, a welcome back to the game. I thought you would’ve taken the tape off before you got out there.”

“Well I didn’t. This was my first game in a long time, and my first game playing with one functioning eye. I had other things on my mind.” Blood pounds at my temples. My first game back, and I fall flat on my face. Multiple times.

“I’ll know for next time.”

“There is no next time. I know what you’re up to. Doing your dad’s bidding. Let me tell you something. What happened on the ice was his fault. He charged into me and took out my eye. He messed up his shoulder. It wasn’t me.”

“What? Griffin, what are you talking about?”

I don’t have the patience to listen to his excuses. “Both of you can fuck off.”

I miss the days of slamming down a phone to hang up on someone. It’s not as cathartic pressing the end call button.

* * *

A few days later,I’m still steaming about the prank. The thought of it makes my ears burn. Jack’s tried calling me back a few times since then, but I don’t want a halfhearted apology. I don’t even want a full-hearted apology from him.

“You don’t prank a player before an actual game,” I mutter to Hank. I slouch in my chair, not for emphasis, but because these auditorium chairs are so damn uncomfortable. They’re meant for teenage bodies, not mine.

“I know, I know.” Hank is only half paying attention to me. He looks toward the stage waving to his son Brody like he’s flagging a taxi. Brody gives his dad a tentative, awkward wave back, immediately embarrassed.

“That’s shit you only pull during a practice. Pranking before a game is below the belt stuff.”

“It’s that whole generation. They don’t care about rules, or anybody, so long as it makes for a good meme. They don’t have driver’s licenses. They don’t have sex. All they have are memes.” Hank shakes his head. Were we not in public, he’d probably be shaking his fist, too. It’s amazing how all of us turn into this person as we get older, whether we like it or not.

Brody sits at a long table with three of his quiz bowl teammates. They all wear matching, baggy South Rock High Quiz Bowl T-shirts. I hate to admit what Hank and I said about these types of kids when we were their age. I’m not proud of it, and since most of those kids are far more successful than me, I’ve been eating crow my whole adult life. Why do we mock smart kids? They’re the ones who become the doctors who keep us healthy, engineers who build our cities, creatives who entertain us, and politicians who pass our laws. Shouldn’t they be at the top of the popularity food chain?

“Go Brody! Kick some ass!” Hank shouts out along with a resounding WOOOO that reverberates in the auditorium. Brody blushes and looks down at the table.

Brody’s quiz bowl coach, Mr. Bright, hops off the stage and comes up to us. He’s young, beanpole thin with a mop of brown curls. He empties some Skittles into his hand and tosses them back like pills.

“Mr. Rush, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but this isn’t a sporting event. You may want to take it down a scooch.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that, Amos.”

“Since we’re at my place of work, please call me Mr. Bright.”

Amos is good friends with Mitch’s husband. We’ve been around him at social gatherings, where it only takes half a drink for him to let down his professional guard.

“You got it, Mr. Bright.” Hank gives him a salute. “Brody has been practicing really hard for this. He’s going to kick so much ass the other team will need a rectal exam when it’s over.”

“You know, I might not phrase it exactly like that.” Amos cocks his head. “But I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

“You don’t want to throw him off his game, like by taping his skates,” I say.

“It’s not a game. It’s a quiz bowl tournament. But sure?” Amos awkwardly places a purple Skittle in his mouth and returns to the stage.

On the way over, Hank was listing out all of his son’s academic achievements like the proudest dad in the world. Brody is destined to find the cure for cancer, invent the next supercomputer, or help us colonize Mars. Maybe all three.

“Anyway, cut Jack a little slack,” Hank says. “He’s not that far removed from being a teenager, and you know how guys are in high school.”

“He’s twenty-four. He’s an adult,” I shoot back.

---