Page 45 of Gross Misconduct

“He’s not the only one with scars.” I don’t have to point to my eye patch. Jack’s stare gets there on his own. “He never visited me in the hospital. He never apologized. Even if it was a freak accident, fucking apologize.”

“What can I say? My dad’s an asshole. He was born angry, he’s angry every day, and he’ll die an angry old man.”

“Is that how you want to live?” I hand him the wrench. He puts it away in the correct drawer.

Jack shakes his head no.

“Can you pass me the mirror in the third drawer down?” Jack hands it over. I use it to check around the wheels in hard to reach angles. I want to make sure there are no other loose screws or wires around the landing gear.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you, Jack. That sucks. But at least you got to play. You made it to the NHL. Things might not have gone how you wanted them to, but you still accomplished something great.”

Jack nods politely, the way we do with unearned compliments. He takes back the mirror, places it back in the toolchest. “So did you.”

I snort a laugh, thinking this is him being sarcastic again.

“I never made it pro. Your dad made sure of that.”

“Stop being so down on yourself, Griffin.” Jack throws a clean rag in my face. “I’ll admit the sad, wounded puppy thing is cute, but it’s not accurate.”

“I’m not the one who lied about my life, Jack,” I shoot back.

“But you’re not being totally honest with yourself, either.” Jack gets right in my face. I can practically feel his stubble on my cheek. “Yeah, you didn’t go pro, but you have a pretty good life. You have a great job, good friends, a roof over your head, two daughters who sound adorable and love you no matter what your hockey stats are. You’re doing pretty good for yourself. And trust me, there are lots of guys playing in the NHL who have everything you dream of and are miserable because they don’t have what you have today.”

Jack’s eyes vibrate with an intensity that catch me off guard. His words cut through walls that had been there so long, slicing through the story I’d told myself for decades.

“I should count my blessings more,” I admit. “So should you.”

“Deal.” He holds out his hand for a shake. I squeeze extra hard, but he doesn’t wince.

Heat builds between us, spinning around like electricity in a lightning storm.

With a sincerity and urgency I didn’t know I had in me, I cup his cheeks in my hands. He doesn’t mind the bits of grease streaked on his skin. “You’re going to be okay, Jack. I promise you that.”

Jack’s eyes don’t move from me. I stare into him, seeing the fear hiding behind the cockiness. It only makes me want to hold him closer. The moment, whatever the fuck this moment is, swirls around us. I feel my body inch closer, a deep desire to taste his lips overcoming me. Jack shuffles toward me, heat radiating between our bodies.

And then, in a quick jolt, I see Ted Gross’s angry face from Ferguson’s. I see his hockey stick coming at me. I freeze up, and in those critical seconds, Jack clenches under my hands. He steps back, whatever truths he revealed behind his eyes gone.

“I really need to learn my lesson with you.” Jack grabs his jacket and storms out before I have a chance to explain. Well, first I’d have to come up with a fucking explanation.

I glare at the Cessna. The landing gear is gleaming and fixed. At least one thing in this fucking hangar knows how to take off.

15

JACK

Ialways dread going home. For most people in the world, home is a cozy place, a sanctuary, four walls filled with love and safety.

Most people didn’t grow up under the roof of Ted Gross.

Home was where I went to get nonstop feedback on my hockey game, where pressure was put on to win the next game, where a homey touch was forever lacking after Mom left. When I got drafted out of high school, I might’ve been happier to live in a different city than I was to become a professional hockey player.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dad asks when I stumble into the kitchen from the garage. He hunches over the small table with a microwave dinner, the purple Ferguson’s apron slung over the opposite chair. Lucky for me, he never changes his garage door code. Otherwise, I don’t know if he’d let me in.

“I need something from my room,” I say.

I look around and recoil at the memories that seep out of the old furniture. Even though Dad keeps the house clean, there’s still a dingy, sad quality to it, like being in a club that’s no longer cool. He never bothered to replace the family pictures on the wall. Dad’s always preferred living in the past. Mom’s smile from a Disney trip beams back at me, empty and cruel. I’ll never understand how someone could look that joyful and then bail on her son less than a year later. When she left, Dad’s idea of fatherly warmth was telling me to channel my anger on the ice.

“I’ll just be a minute.” I trudge upstairs, past a photo wall of family pictures, pictures from my peewee hockey days, and Dad’s high school hockey days. It is the staircase of broken dreams.

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