Page 57 of Gross Misconduct

Why is it that I’m more nervous about seeing Griffin than I am about nailing this interview? Is it because I can’t stop thinking about the possibility of getting nailed by him?

Griffin and I had unfinished business…which we finished in that alley the other night. I finally caught the guy who slipped through my fingers. I finally got confirmation that yes, he finds me attractive and yes, he is hung like a rhino. He made me wish I had the ability to unhinge my jaw.

I should do what I always do after I hook up with a guy. Move on dot org. Especially now that Griffin and I are facing off in this big charity game. It’s been less than a day, and already the mayor had a graphic made up and posted about the Sourwood Cup across the town’s social media channels.

A deep breath exhales from my lungs as the woods clear and the airport comes into view. I’m trying a calming breath exercise recommended by Miller. I want Griffin, but I need this job. Or do I want this job but need Griffin?

Single engine planes and a few private jets dot the tarmac. The driver pulls into the parking lot.

I take one more calming breath, for the job and for Griffin. Technically, I don’t have to see him. I can go straight into the office. Yet I know on an instinctual level my body will not allow that the same way it won’t allow me to gingerly walk off a cliff.

The driver clears his throat, my cue to get the fuck out.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

I puff out my chest and stroll into the hangar, feeling cool and relaxed. When in doubt, fake it ‘til you make it.

In the center of the hangar is the largest plane at this airport by far, and the most noticeable. I’ve never seen a pink airplane. On the side of it “Penelope Towne” is painted in big, swoopy letters. That sound you hear is every girl I went to high school with screaming in jealousy.

A burly patch of gray on the left wing stands out amid the pink.

A familiar swelling takes place between my legs.

It’s just the jumpsuit, I tell myself.

“Hello up there!” I yell to Griffin. “Better make sure this plane doesn’t crash. It’ll be carrying precious cargo.”

A slight smile curls onto his face revealing a sliver of white teeth, his beard crinkling around his lips. It’s so fucking yummy.

He peers past me to the parking lot. “Did you take an Uber here?”

My driver peels away, a giant Uber sticker visible on his bumper.

“Fancy,” Griffin says.

“I’m saving up to get my car fixed.” I don’t need to delve into that mortifying aspect of my life, a pro athlete who can’t even afford new brakes. I point to the plane. “You a Penelope Towne fan?”

“Can’t say I’m familiar.” Griffin steps back onto the scissor lift and comes down to my level. His uniform pulls across his chest and stomach, and I don’t know which is hotter.

“She’s good. Like Taylor Swift but with a harder edge, but like a corporately appropriate hard edge,” I inform him. “She was a constant presence on my Spotify Wrapped in high school.”

“What’s that?”

I bulge my eyes, wondering if he’s serious. Then I realize that my dad probably doesn’t know what Spotify is either.

“It’s like listening to her CD over and over.”

He nods and wipes his thick, strong hands on a rag, the same hands that moved me around the other night like a puppet on a stage, telling me I was his and his alone in that alley.

I take another deep calming breath in the hopes that it can also keep boners at bay.

“So what do you think about this game?” I ask.

“The Sourwood Cup?” he says as he rolls his eyes.

“Are you sure you guys want to do it? I don’t want to humiliate you in front of all your friends. Though, I will if I have to.” Oddly, talking shit helps level me. It’s how I get in the zone on the ice, bringing the most intimidating players down to size.

“Who says we’re the ones that’ll be losing?” He crosses his arms, making his muscles bulge. I have to admire his confidence, even though it’s ridiculous.

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