Page 64 of Gross Misconduct

“I asked your teammate.”

“And he told you?”

“I asked nicely.” His teammate Fuentes made me promise that I wasn’t coming over here to cause trouble. I assured him I came in peace. My reason for visiting Jack would be a net positive for both teams.

“How did you know which car was mine?”

I smack the “Puck Off” bumper sticker on his car. I lay back down on the creeper. “Can you hand me the metal wire brush? Your rotor is really corroded.”

I push myself underneath the car again and hold out my hand. A few seconds later, Jack shoves the brush firmly into my palm. After putting on my goggles and dust mask, I get to work scrubbing the rust off his rotor, finding the shine under the grime. I hop out from under the car and continue scrubbing.

Eventually, Jack finds the extra metal brush and protective wear and scrubs at the rotors for the back wheels.

“I was going to get my car fixed,” he says.

“I know. I had the parts and the time.”

“Thanks.” The word is filled with genuine emotion, a hidden tiredness coming off him.

“You don’t want to drain all your savings on Ubers.” I maneuver the brush between the bolts. Jack finds a stubborn patch of rust and scrubs hard, his forehead reddening with exertion.

“I wish my dad had taught me how to fix cars rather than play hockey. Is that how you learned?” Jack asks.

I give a terse nod. “Fixing up his hot rod was the last thing we did together before he died.”

“I’m sorry.”

When I’m working on a plane, there are times when I close my eyes for a second and the smell of the machinery sends me back to our family garage with my dad. We’d spend nearly every weekend working on his car, the hours sailing by, beer for him and Coke for me, classic rock on the radio. There was no greater high than the jittery anticipation of watching him turn the key in the ignition and the exhilaration of hearing the engine come to life.

“I’m grateful he taught me everything he knew about cars. When hockey didn’t pan out and I lost all my college scholarship prospects, I needed a job. Luckily, you can fix cars with only one eye. I kept learning and worked my way up to fixing airplanes.”

Even though my hockey path didn’t work out, I hold out a sliver of hope that my old man would be proud to watch me work on massive jet wings and engines. Or maybe it would only disappoint him, wondering about my wasted potential.

“You’re making your parents proud,” Jack says. “How’s this?”

I come over and slide my finger over the rotor. “It needs to be a little smoother.”

Jack nods and reverts to rigorous scrubbing. Any rust on the rotor will compromise the new brake pads and make them less effective.

Mom and Dad are watching me from heaven, and I can’t help wondering if they’re proud of what they see. Their son was supposed to be a hockey star. That’s what all the struggling was for. “I wanted to give my mom the life that we never had growing up.”

“Fancy cars? A big house? Fur coats? Those things are overrated. They make you happy for a little bit, but not long. The high wears off pretty fast. And I’m sure you’re aware of how much of a money pit a fancy car can be.”

I chuckle as I scrub around a stubborn patch. People who owned sports cars were always shocked and appalled at how much it cost to fix them. They assumed we were ripping them off, but it was actually the manufacturer ripping them off with expensive parts.

I go over to Jack and feel his rotor. Nice and smooth. Like his bare ass.

“So why the hell are you fixing my car on a Sunday night?” he asks.

“Because I kicked ass this morning. I had my best game of the season by a mile. I wasn’t in my head. I was nailing all of my shots and passes.”

“You were in the zone,” Jack says, something clicking for him. “I was, too.”

“I heard you played great in the game before us.”

“My teammates had been telling me I was rusty, but that I’d shake it off.”

“Sounds familiar.” I slide the new brake pad into the wheel I’m working on, then do the same for the other front wheel. “We need to keep the momentum going.”

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