Page 63 of Gross Misconduct

“Exactly!” Derek says.

When we get onto the ice, I’m able to drown out the noise and pressure that Bill’s trying not to instill in us. I focus on the game, on what I love about hockey, what I’ve missed about playing. The thrill of the puck careening off my blade. My skates gliding through the ice. The choreography of the perfect pass to the goal.

At the top of the bleachers, I clock a familiar blond. Jack watches us warm up. Or rather, watches me warm up, because whenever I look, I find his eyes on me. Even when my head is down, I can feel his presence.

His hair is still damp and shaggy, making him look extra adorable.

Bill corrals us to our bench and gives us one final pep talk. Today’s game is against the Trouts, a bunch of guys from the outskirts of town who all fish together at a local pond where they’ll play hockey when it freezes in the winter. Their beards are so long they scraggle through their face masks.

By the time both teams get on the ice for the puck drop, Jack is gone.

As soon as the puck drops, I become an immovable force on defense. Pretty much nothing gets through me. I deliver a perfectly timed poke check as the Trouts’ forward tries to cut to the middle of the ice, knocking the puck away and preventing a dangerous scoring chance. I smoothly recover the puck and skate it out of my zone, threading a crisp pass to Des who breaks out down the ice and scores.

I continue winning puck battle after puck battle in my zone, tying up sticks in front of the net. I can tell the Trouts’ forwards are pissed off as they barely get any shots on our goal, muttering expletives at me as their breakaways keep getting rejected. I’m able to anticipate passes before the opposing forwards can even make them and intercept multiple cross-ice passes.

In the final period, the opposing forward charges to the net. I skate in front of him as he takes his shot, the puck bouncing off my shin guard with such force I worry the gear is going to crack. I quickly recover and clear the puck with a sharp pass to Bill.

The game flies by in a joyous blur. It’s the same euphoria I felt on those rare times when I studied for a test and knew every answer, where filling in the Scantron was a preordained victory lap. When the game ends, I don’t want to get off the ice.

We win in a shutout, four-zip.

“Holy shit,” Bill says to me in the locker room afterward. It takes a lot to stun Bill. His poker face is a default expression. “Griffin.”

“Good game, right?” I ask.

“Wehad a good game.Youhad a fucking incredible game. Holy shit.” Bill happily wears his expression on his face this time. He’s as excited as my daughters when we put up the Christmas tree.

“You were on fire,” says Des behind us.

“Griff’s mojo is back!” proclaims Hank.

“I knew it would come back. It just needed some time,” says Bill.

“I’ll be honest. I didn’t know if we had an ice cube’s shot in hell of beating the Blades.” Des takes off his gear, chucking it into his locker. “But now, I think we actually do.”

To my surprise, nobody disagrees with that statement.

Bill grabs my cheeks, his eyes wide with glee. “Secret weapon: activated.”

* * *

“Hey, what the hell are you…”Jack stops mid-sentence.

I push myself out from under his car and rub my hands off on my rag. I’ve raised it using a pair of jacks, which allow me and my creeper better access to the underbelly of his car. I’m even wearing one of my work jumpsuits. I have a suspicion that it turns him on.

I stand up from my creeper. Jack looks at me, the jacks, the toolbox, his car. He can’t make sense of anything.

So this is what it takes to shut Jack Gross up, huh?

“That’s my car,” he says, pointing at the rundown, two-door vehicle that desperately needs to go through a car wash. He points at me, but has no clue what to say.

“You said you needed new brake pads.” I pull the rounded pads from my toolbox. “Sometimes we have extra auto parts at the hangar. These should fit your make and model. They’re ceramic, too, which typically last longer than metallic.”

“Um. Okay.” Jack’s index finger is still pointed my way. “You’re giving me new brake pads?”

“Yeah. The brake pads themselves aren’t expensive. You’re mostly paying for labor.” Being a mechanic may not be a very lucrative job, but the amount of money I’ve saved not getting ripped off by other mechanics could probably pay for an Ivy League education for both of my daughters.

“How do you know where I lived?”

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