Page 47 of Gross Misconduct

“It’s amazing. He’s not bad for only having one functioning eye.”

“You’re a fan?” Dad asks, disgusted.

“No.” A flush of heat creeps up my neck. “I haven’t played against his team yet.”

“You can’t let him beat you, Jack,” he says with the seriousness of a father sending his boy off to war. “A professional hockey player getting beat by a middle-aged, one-eyed has-been? It’s pathetic.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder, a sign of paternal affection that sends a chill through my body. “He is not your friend, Jack. He’s not your league mate or drinking buddy. That man took everything away from us.”

His voice is fragile and laced with pain. I let his hand stay on me a moment more before shrugging it off. I have a low tolerance for father-son bonding. “Noted.”

* * *

I playedthat Sunday without my lucky bracelet and was as rusty as ever. Is it any surprise we lost?

Fortunately, the beauty of a recreational beer league is we can drown our sorrows at Easter Egg, a new arcade bar that opened up in downtown Sourwood. I sit around a big table with my teammates while the bright colors and symphony of arcade noises surround us.

Nobody in the Blades is that sad about our loss. We only talk about the game for a little bit, then the conversation moves to jobs, family, movies.

I can’t help but feel an uncomfortable spotlight on me, though. Griffin said it himself: I am a ringer. When you put a former pro on your team, you expect results.

I excuse myself from the table, get some quarters from the bartender, and shuffle to the open Addams Family pinball machine straight out of the early ‘90s.

“Hey.” Miller knocks my elbow, sensing my frustration and current party-pooper status. “It’s all good.”

“Yeah, I know.” I stay locked into the game, fighting to keep the pinball from the gutter for a few more seconds. The last thing I want is a pep talk.

“It’s just a game.”

“Says the guy who unleashed a string of F-bombs at the player who was hooking you.” Summers Rink bills the league games as “family-friendly events.” Marcy had a word with Miller about his language.

“I’m a very passionate player,” Miller says, inhaling a deep breath and chasing it with more beer.

“I didn’t have my lucky bracelet. I’ve always played with the bracelet.” The pinball careens into the gutter, right between my flippers, shutting me up. I can’t blame my performance on a piece of lanyard, as much as I believe in good luck charms. “I sucked out there.”

“You didn’t suck,” he says with little confidence. I arch my eyebrow at him, calling bullshit. “Fine, you’re still a little rusty.”

“When can I stop being rusty?” Is there WD-40 for this problem? Isn’t rust irreversible anyway? Rusty machines don’t become brand new no matter how much scrubbing you do.

“You need to get out of your head,” Miller notes. “You’re thinking too much.”

“There’s a first for everything,” I joke. Though Miller might be onto something. I play best when I can focus on the game, but my head’s been filled with so much shit lately. Finding a job. Figuring out what the hell I’m going to do with my life. Dealing with Dad’s perpetual disappointment. And now Griffin has wedged his way inside my brain. Our conversation in the hangar and the night we met keeps playing in my head. Something about him instantly makes my thoughts untangle and allows me to admit things I’ve been too scared to say.

Oh, and his bare chest and belly play in a running loop in my head, too. As if I didn’t have enough noise already.

“Fuck.” I watch another ball fall into the gutter. Game over.

Miller rubs a spot on my back that he’s sure holds all my tension.

“These things take time. You haven’t played in a few years,” he says.

“Neither have you guys.”

“Trust the universe. It knows what it’s doing.”

“Miller, I love you, man, but I also want to punch you in the face when you say shit like that.”

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