Page 56 of Gross Misconduct

“Leo, what the fuck is this about?” Derek asks. Fortunately, they’re childhood friends so he’s allowed to throw an F-bomb the mayor’s way.

“Follow me.” His smile is chipper, the wheels turning behind his eyes as he walks past us to the rink. He whistles through his fingers to get the Blades’ attention. They stop their practice and skate to the edge of the ice.

“I hope you don’t mind that I crashed your practice,” Leo says.

“It’s cool. We’re just wrapping up.” Jack takes off his helmet, his hair thick and shiny with sweat, red lips popping against the bright white of the ice. He is just as sexy as he was the other night. I truly don’t know how I’ll resist him, but if I can live life without my left eye, I can make it without Jack Gross.

Our eyes meet for a millisecond before he returns to the mayor.

“I wanted to discuss an idea I had.” Leo warms up his hands and stands on the bottom bleacher. Being a politician, the man can’t help but always go for the best angles. “Most of the guys on the Comebacks are local legends. Over twenty years ago, they played together at South Rock High School where they won back-to-back state championships, the only time that’s happened in the school’s history. The Wolf Pack. You were and still are legends. And you’re showing all of us that your hockey days aren’t over. Far from it.” Leo claps for us. He’s the only one that does.

He clears his throat to continue. “And the Blades are also made up of champions. Dominick Miller and Jay Fuentes played at Briar Hills High, part of the team which also won a state championship a few years back.”

My teammates and I roll our eyes at “a few years back.”

“And then we have Jack Gross.”

Leo points to Jack like he’s the grand prize on a game show. Jack’s cheeks are still red from playing, but there’s a shade of blush mixed in.

“MVP at Briar Hills two years in a row. He was the force behind that championship. Number one player with goals and assists. And then of course, Jack was drafted and then played in the NHL for four seasons. He’s an actual pro hockey player.”

Jack looks like the acclaim is a medieval torture device on him.

“You brought us out here to run through our resumes?” Bill asks.

“I’m getting to my point.”

“Could you get there already?” Bill is never one for bullshit, no matter who it’s coming from.

“We have two generations of local athletes. And a professional hockey player. It’s a perfect battle of young” —he points to the Blades before pointing to us— “versus old.”

“Thanks,” deadpans Hank.

“So what I propose is changing up the game schedule and setting what I call a Sourwood Face Off: a special charity game of the old guard vs. the new guard. The Comebacks vs. the Blades. We promote it as a big event, get the whole town out. All ticket sales can go to charity. The Wolf Pack versus the young guns. The amateurs versus the pro. What do you think?”

My teammates and I share glances of uncertainty. None of us want to lose on such a public stage, in front of everyone we know. We don’t want to prove people’s assumptions right, that hockey is a young man’s game. And I can’t help but think this is a disaster in the making for myself especially. I’m still rusty, very rusty.

“Let’s do it.” Jack steps forward, confident as ever. “That is, unless the Comebacks don’t feel comfortable with it.”

“Game on,” Bill says without hesitation. He shakes Jack’s hand. This time, I feel Jack’s eyes on me, but I can’t meet his.

Bill’s determination lights a fire that spreads to all of us. We may be old, but we are still as competitive as fuck, and we play to win.

“Excellent. We’ll set up the game for a month from now.” Leo claps his hands in victory. Him with his darn PR wins. “This is going to be great. A charity hockey game targeting multiple demographics of Sourwood residents.”

“Nothing cynical about that at all.” Des raises an eyebrow.

Leo throws his coat over his shoulder and leaves. The Blades and the Comebacks stare each other down.

“We look forward to kicking your ass,” Jack says, winking at us. Although that wink feels specifically targeted to me.

19

JACK

That afternoon, I take an Uber to my second interview at the airport. I’m a bundle of nerves for two reasons. One, the job, obviously. It would be nice not watching my savings dwindle like sand running through an hourglass. But also, I’m going to see Griffin again. In his gray jumpsuit. Oh, that fucking gray jumpsuit. It’s like the jockstrap of uniforms.

I tap my finger against the window as the car drives down the wooded road to the airfield. The driver eyes me through the rearview mirror.

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