Page 49 of Gross Misconduct

“Uh oh. Jack Gross found a guy who doesn’t immediately give it up. No wonder your head looks like it’s going to explode.” Fuentes finds way too much joy from my personal life.

“Griffin isn’t playing hard to get. He’s playing some other game with no clear-cut rules. I am tired of him meddling in my life.”

Miller returns, face a normal shade of color. “Okay, I’m back. What did I miss?”

“Jack’s desire to jump Griffin’s bones is eating him from the inside.”

“Fuck you, Fuentes.” I storm back to the table and say good night to the rest of the team. I take two shots someone left and bolt out of there.

The cold air and alcohol work to clear my head, or try to. But goddamn Griffin is still in there, playing his games with no rules. Why does he have to be so fucking attractive and sweet and thoughtful? It only makes the rejection sting more. Does he think I’m not good enough for him?

I wander down the main drag of Sourwood. Most stores are closed. Lampposts and neon signs of bars light up the night.

Miller says to trust the universe. Well, the universe is quickly proving herself to be a bitch who can’t be trusted. Because when I glance down an alley, I spot a familiar pickup truck.

What the fuck is the universe trying to say with this?

I burp and then narrow my eyes at the car as I laugh to myself. I don’t know what the universe has uphersleeve, but I have a plan of my own.

16

GRIFFIN

It’s a good thing our friend owns Stone’s Throw Tavern, or else we’d probably get thrown out by this point. The Comebacks are still on a high from our squeaker of a victory at today’s game against the God Squad, a team made up of ministers and rabbis from the area.

“It was beautiful. A thing of beauty. It should be in a museum.” Bill hoists his beer in the air, and we cheer, glasses clinking against each other in a joyous mishmash.

He’s talking about the epic game-winning shot courtesy of Des and Tanner. They had a remarkable opening where they sped down the ice, passing the puck back and forth like a slingshot between their sticks, where Tanner took a shot. The puck sailed into the upper corner of the net. If the goalie had been a tenth of a second quicker, he could’ve blocked it.

Des and Tanner take in the acclaim. Tanner is more modest. Des, not so much. He motions for Bill to keep talking.

“So what you’re saying is that it was the Mona Lisa of passing,” Des says, not one to shy away from hyperbole.

“Something like that. I just watched that puck go back and forth. The God Squad couldn’t keep up. It was…it was just like old times,” Bill says, a twinkle in his eye. “You still have that old magic.”

“Nobody’s old here,” Des says, throwing back a martini.

Back in high school, Des and Tanner were dynamic twosome on the ice, their passing coordination getting past the heaviest defense. They were so in sync, it was as if they could read each other’s minds about where to go on the ice.

“It’s a good thing Des is so predictable. That way I always know where the puck will end up,” Tanner says, shooting him a playful sneer.

“And it’s a good thing that I’m always one step ahead of Chance.” Des clinks his drink against Tanner’s pint glass, matching sneer for sneer. “It keeps Dear Old Dad on his toes.”

“Thanks for making me such a great player, buddy,” Tanner says, his eyes staying on Des. He was never one for trash talking.

“Likewise,” Des shoots him a wink. Tanner turns back to his drink, but I clock Des’s eyes staying on him for an extra second. After decades of friendship and teamwork, they have a strong bond that’s heartening to see.

“Aww. Kiss!” Hank says before breaking into a laugh. “Kidding!”

Mitch shuffles up to us, replenishing our peanut bowl. “Congrats on the win.”

“How’s the back?” Bill asks.

“It’s getting there. Definitely by next season.”

“Mitch, what are you doing?” Charlie, his much-younger husband, races up to him, panicked. “The doctor said you shouldn’t be carrying anything heavy.”

“It’s a peanut dish,” Mitch says.

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