Page 44 of Gross Misconduct

It’s then that I notice Jack’s suit isn’t that nice. His shoes are scuffed and don’t have a designer label. And peeking out his briefcase is a resume with his name plastered on top. Rich people don’t use resumes. They use country clubs and connections.

“You don’t have a private plane?” I ask, the truth slowly revealing itself. “And you don’t own that building you took me to when we met?”

Jack’s eyes are like a mood ring changing hues before he has a chance to make up an excuse. The fiery aqua of before deepens to a dark blue-green ocean of regret, informing me that I’m correct.

“I’m pretty much broke,” he utters, his voice barely above a whisper. “My friend owns that building. He lets me rent one of his apartments for super cheap. Otherwise I’d be living in my car.”

I try to wrap my head around this information, but it’s a shock to the system. “But you played in the NHL. I looked you up. You were a professional athlete.”

“We’re not all multi-millionaires lounging in swimming pools filled with Lamborghinis. I was traded to four teams in four years. I wasn’t exactly a star player, and I definitely wasn’t paid like one.” He loosens his tie, a sense of relief coming over him as he unspools the truth. “I made decent money, but when you give a twenty-year-old all that cash, he’s bound to make a lot of stupid decisions with it.”

Jack laughs to himself, probably the only way to get over being rich and having it all go away.

“I owned a Lambo. They’re a pain in the ass to keep up. They get horrible mileage, and they require the more expensive premium gas.” Jack yanks his tie off and shoves it in his briefcase.

“Smart that you got rid of it,” I say.

“It got repo’d.”

“Shit.” My heart sinks thinking about everything Jack went through by the time he was twenty-four. He gained and lost a fortune. Gained and lost a career. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t do that. I don’t want your pity. I don’t deserve it. I did this to myself. I thought the good times were going to last forever, and I made some shitty decisions. Trusted the wrong people.” He shakes his head to himself, his eyes darkening.

“Was anything you said on the night we met the truth?” I ask, half-joking.

“Yeah. My dad is an asshole who used me to live out his failed dreams. He thought I would be his ticket out of his shitty life. He did a one-eighty when it was clear I was never going to be the star player. It’s quite breathtaking how quickly people close to you can turn.” Jack’s bottom lip quivers, and for a moment, I wonder if a tear will fall down his face. Instead, he stands up from his stool, gets right in my face, anger seething from him. “He didn’t put me up toanythingwith you. I’m not his fucking puppet, got that?”

I nod in understanding, and it gives me a sense of relief. I don’t have to hate myself as much for thinking Jack is attractive. It also makes me hate Ted Gross even more, if that was possible.

“Well, good luck with the job hunt,” I say. I squat down again to work on the wheel that’s loose under this Cessna. Jack walks around my workstation, opening drawers and admiring tools. A wrench falls out of his hand and clangs back into the drawer. He reminds me of a stray puppy that wants attention.

“Can you, uh, pass me that wrench actually?” Since he’s just standing around, he could be of use. Technically, it’s not allowed, but there are airplane owners who prefer to service their own aircraft. A quick smile flits on his face at the request, which makes the freckles on his nose squish together. Not that I should know a damn thing about his freckles.

I tighten the screw for the front wheel, but it’s still loose. I take out the screw and notice the sides have been worn down.

“Hey, can you see if there’s a screw in there that matches this one?” I hand it to Jack.

“Sure.” He rifles through the drawers in the toolchest. He takes out a screw, compares it to the broken one, studies the grooves, then throws it back because it’s not the right one. He does this two more times before handing over a match. The kid wants to work, I’ll give him that.

“Thanks.” I squat back down. The screw fits in perfectly.

“So like, what’s the deal with you and my dad? What happened?” Jack sits on the floor, no cares about messing up his suit. He takes off the jacket, which was squeezing his arms. His shirt allows me to see the curve of his chest better.

“What does your dad say happened?”

“He was going for a puck, and you skated at him full speed and just barreled into him like a bus.”

“He barreled into me! I was the one going for that puck, and he came at me stick first.” A flash of white hot anger burns in me. I could bend this wrench in half I was so pissed. Ted Gross is crying victim? He still has two functioning eyes.

Jack throws his hands up in defense. “Just repeating what he said many times over the years.” He sidles up to the plane, smoothing his hand over the fuselage. “Maybe you guys are both right?”

Everything happened in less than two seconds. Unlike with the JFK assassination, there’s no footage to parse and obsess over. But I remember what happened. I remember the last time I saw anything out of my left eye, the image of Ted Gross coming at me like a cannon ball.

“He messed up his shoulder really bad. He was never able to play the same way again. Still hurts him to this day,” Jack says.

“You’re defending him?”

“Trust me, I’m not. The last thing I want to do is stick up for him.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, its warmth calming me down.

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