Page 41 of Gross Misconduct

“Hey, everybody’s gotta start somewhere.”

I hold his words close to my heart, forcing them to seep in. They are a shield against the cynicism and depression that has clouded me ever since I left the NHL.

“You got this.”

I get out of the car into the cold, refreshing air. I check myself out in the reflection of a puddle. I smooth out my ill-fitting suit. All hockey guys have trouble wearing professional clothing. They’re not built for muscles. It looks like I’m encased in a sardine jar, but it’ll do. Aside from that, hair is good. Scruff is shaved. Tie isn’t crooked.

And yet…I’m fucked.

Because in the reflection, I catch sight of a familiar pickup truck behind me. It was only a week ago that I watched that pickup drive away with my and my team’s clothing, a certain surly gentleman flashing me a victorious grin. A grin I should’ve been mad at, but have kept thinking about. Watching a serious person smile is like unlocking a new level in a video game.

Crap, Griffin works here. I vaguely remember him mentioning he was a mechanic for a private airport when we met. I should’ve listened harder instead of sneaking glances at his bulge.

Knowing that I’m in the same vicinity as him makes me a new kind of nervous. My stomach regularly does a somersault when I think of him, which is very rude of my stomach considering the guy has no interest in me.

If I can handle getting knocked around on the ice and getting traded every year, then I can handle a regular corporate job. The hardest part will be faking enthusiasm for sitting at a desk. I don’t know if office life is right for me. But working at Ferguson’s wasn’t right for me either. Maybe I need to suck it up rather than trying to find where I belong. I wish that the NHL would’ve given us some training on job stuff in between all the practice. They likely knew that most of us would need a regular job when our career was done.

I walk into the expansive hangar where people in gray jumpsuits work on fixing airplanes. There are small two-engine planes and a large, private jet in the back.

I’ve flown on a private jet before. The cool factor wears off quickly. The food is never as good as you want it to be.

As I admire the jet, I spot Griffin working on the bottom of it from a raised platform, deep into his work, sleeves pushed up.

I find myself captivated by his methodical working. The way his brow creases as he tightens a widget. The smear of grease across his thick forearm. The smile he gives his fellow mechanic when she cracks a joke. He’s a man in his element, good at his job.

And damn does he look good in his jumpsuit. Fuentes and Miller told me to bring a briefcase so that I’d seem like a more serious person. I now use that briefcase to cover the very serious tenting in my pants.

Griffin turns to get something from his toolbox, giving me a glimpse of his big, round ass jutting out perfectly against the dull gray of the jumpsuit.

Could I stock that cake in the company fridge?

He turns back to the jet, and I dart out of view before he can see me.

* * *

I meetwith a Black woman named Darlene who’s the executive assistant to the airport general manager. As she describes her role at the airport, it sounds like she’s the one running this place. We walk past a row of offices until we reach hers. It’s cramped, but there’re homey touches like plants and pictures of her kids. To our left is the door that leads to her boss’s office. Outside her window, a gleaming private jet sits on the tarmac. They look small on the runway and in the sky, but up close, they’re huge. It reminds me of people in apartments when massive parade floats pass by their windows.

“That’s quite a view!” I say.

“Oh, yeah. There’s a musician that lives in the area, and that’s her private plane. I can’t say whose it is, but if you start working here, you’ll probably see her around.” The fan side of Darlene makes a quick cameo before she goes back to her business self.

We have some pleasant chitchat about hockey life. Her husband was a fan of one of my prior teams, which led to my resume sticking out in her pile. I breathe a small sigh of relief that she’s already on my side.

“So Jack, tell me what attracted you to the role?” she asks. There comes that point in an interview when the pleasant chitchat fades away, and the interviewer inevitably becomes an adversary, judging whether to hire you or not.

In hockey, I’m used to thinking on my feet, pivoting when a teammate is blocked or a shot goes wide. Interviews are a new beast for me.

“Why am I attracted to the role? That’s a great question,” I say, obviously stalling. The first answer that pops into my head is the truth: because you called me in for an interview and because I need a job. I will do pretty much whatever you tell me to do so long as you give me a paycheck. Too bad honesty is the worst policy in job interviews.

I search my brain for an intelligent sentence, and the best I come up with is, “Well, I’ve always liked airplanes.”

Darlene nods, waiting for more.

“You know, they’re cool. Because they’re so heavy, but they can fly through the air.” I can hear how dumb I sound, and yet I can’t stop. It’s the same thing that happens when I feel momentum sending me into an opposing player. “And so I’d love to work around airplanes.”

And maybe a certain mechanic whose ass looks tasty in his uniform.

She waits a few seconds, as if expecting me to say something better and then realizing that that won’t be happening. She gives a polite smile.

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