Page 68 of Gross Misconduct

“We’re going to crush it on the ice this week.”

He grabs a roll of paper towels from the bathroom sink and runs over. He rips off a piece for me to wipe off the locker I sullied. He’s about to clean me up down there, when I push his hand away. I pull up my jockstrap, base layer, and hockey pants with his come still on me.

“You can watch me skate out there.” I wink at him and enjoy that shocked grin he gives in response. “For the good juju.”

23

JACK

Over the next two weeks, the juju was strong with Griffin and me. We did whatever we could to keep that good luck streak going. Whether that entailed giving each other handjobs in the Summers Rink parking lot, or blowing Griffin in my apartment garage, or having Griffin push me against a tree in the woods behind Summers Rink as he ate me raw.

Nobody could say we weren’t focused on winning.

And it was working. Over the next two Sundays, the Blades and the Comebacks won their respective games. I felt myself come back into my own on the ice. I was quicker and nimbler on my skates. I was nailing shots that I couldn’t make to save my life a month ago. The confidence that had eluded me when I joined the team had finally made itself known. I could proudly say that I belonged on the ice.

Even better than that, I was having a fucking blast. I tried to keep my angry game face on during games, but I’d catch myself smiling constantly. There was no overbearing dad or coach breathing down my neck. I was playing hockey because I wanted to and finding joy.

Pressure was building, though, as more people came to our games and buzzed about the Sourwood Cup on social media. Around town, I got a few nods of support, too.

The good juju was working on Griffin, too. I hung back and watched his game last week in stunned silence. I pray to God that I could be that nimble at his age. He was a bolt of thunder on the ice. Who could guess that he hadn’t played in decades? It really was like riding a bike. My admiration for his skill was twinged with fear that I’d actually lose to him in the Sourwood Cup. Griffin had gotten his groove back. I really shouldn’t be helping my opponent. But I can’t stop.

On the ice, my mind was clear. My whole world was the game. But off the ice, I couldn’t stop thinking about Griffin and when I could see him next. When I could taste him, touch him, smell him, hear him. When I could laugh with him.

“Deep breath.” Miller sits on the floor of his yoga studio sitting cross-legged, his eyes closed. “And exhale.”

All the Blades exhale on cue, a loud whoosh echoing in Miller’s studio.

“If there is a mental barnacle clinging to your mind, now is the time to gently pluck it off and cast it back peacefully into the sea.”

“Aren’t barnacles technically parasites?” asks Fuentes.

“Be gone, barnacle,” Miller says, and I can’t tell whether or not that was meant for Fuentes.

I shut my eyes and try to cast out thoughts of Griffin. I don’t need to think about Griffin. I only need to suck him off.

That gets me wondering why we haven’t had sex yet. I tried initiating it in my garage the other day, but he declined and wanted to stick with blow jobs. Some guys are very strict when it comes to the good juju. Perhaps Griffin believes that having full-on sex will scramble the good luck pattern we’ve established. Good juju is more fragile than a wine glass.

Fuck, I shouldn’t be thinking this much about Griffin and sex and sex with Griffin. Our time together is simply a means of improving our game. People I get close to have a tendency of turning their backs on me. I won’t be adding Griffin to that list.

“And inhale peace and calm.” Miller sucks in a breath. I follow accordingly. “And exhale stress and anger. Good.”

I take two more cleansing breaths and find some degree of peace, if only for a second before Woody, our goalie, lets one rip.

“My bad,” he says.

Miller holds back his anger long enough to put his hands together and wish us namaste.

“You ready?” Fuentes asks me when the class breaks.

“For this Sunday? We have it in the bag.” We’re facing the Overbites, a team made up of jolly dentists and orthodontists who hand out free toothpaste samples during intermission. The real win for them is improving Sourwood’s oral hygiene.

“For next Sunday.” A split-second of panic flashes across Fuentes’s big, brown eyes.

“I’m totally ready.”

“So are they,” says Miller. “At their game last week, the Comebacks shut out another team thanks to Griffin Harper.”

Whatever Zen Miller had is gone with the mention of the Comebacks.

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