Page 7 of Gross Misconduct

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About twenty minutes later,we say our goodbyes. I let myself enjoy my beer and the time to myself. My ex-wife Carmen has the girls this week. That’s one of the upsides to divorce, a few childfree nights to myself.

The last droplets of beer hit my throat. I glance over to find Mr. Eyes still at the bar watching a hockey game on TV. Still sexy. When I played, I didn’t let any guy scare me. I could handle them all. But at Stone’s Throw Tavern, I find myself a nervous mess.

Especially when Mr. Eyes turns and winks at me.

Shit.

I nod back, doing the decent thing of acknowledging him. I raise my glass to take a sip, and it takes me a few seconds to remember it was empty and that I’m sucking back air.

It’s time I get the hell out of there.

I calmly yet quickly escape to the bathroom to splash water on my face. I am out and proud. My family is okay with it. So are my friends. I could live my truth. I could do whatever I wanted with a guy without feeling guilt or shame. Yet, here I am hiding in the bathroom.

I’m not hiding.I’m leaving.

I splash another round of water on my face. I go to grab a paper towel and find none. Just the air dryer.

Water drips down my face. I can’t go out in the cold with a wet face. I can’t let Mr. Eyes see me like that and assume I fell in the toilet. Not that I care what he thinks.

I squat under the blower and push it on. Some air dryers blow a normal amount of air. Others blast so much it’s like they’re launching a rocket into space. This one was the latter. Hot jets of ferocious air explode at my face nearly sending me falling to my ass. I clench my eyes shut to keep from going blind. My eyebrows and beard hang on for dear life as my skin ripples with the sheer force of the blower.

Finally, the fiery hell stops. I catch my breath and touch my face, making sure it’s still in one piece. My skin is on fire, but dry.

When I’m able to open my eye, I see a pair of gray ones staring back at me.

Mr. Eyes.

And those dark, fearless, penetrating orbs of his? Even more beautiful than I imagined.

He leans against the sink. “So, are you going to buy me a drink or what?”

3

JACK

Of the many coaches I’ve had in my life, a lot of their advice tended to overlap. There’re only so many ways to tell young gentlemen to never give up, work hard, and believe in themselves. As I shuttled from one team to the next over my career, it became a soup of inspirational advice. But I do remember one coach who put his advice rather succinctly.

If you want it, go and get it. And if you don’t want it, then get the hell off the ice.

Simplicity. I like it.

Little did he know that I’d mostly use his advice for getting some ass.

When I wanted a guy, I went and got him. I saw. I conquered. I came. And then I left, usually in the wee hours of the morning before he could invite me out to breakfast.

Tonight, I saw this burly guy with a beard and a solid body that was either a block of muscle or fat. I didn’t care which. I just wanted to feel its weight on top of me.

And if you want something, go and get it.

“A drink?” he asks, still squatting under the air dryer. He probably thinks he looks like an idiot. I can’t stop ogling his thighs in this position and wondering what it’d feel like to be crushed between them.

And we haven’t even gotten to that eye patch, which makes him instantly ten times hotter. Did he get it in a knife fight? Fixing a car? Building a house? Whatever the reason, he can be my butt pirate any day of the week.

“You’ve been checking me out all night. I might as well get a free drink out of it.” I lean against the bathroom door and watch his eyes–er, eye–flit around for an answer. The man’s not as suave as I expected, but I can work with that. I can power bottom my way through this encounter.

I hold out my hand and pull him to standing. He’s taller than me, built like one of those sequoia trees in California that you can drive through. His forearms are like cannons made of muscle and fur. His hands are rough, calloused, and damn near enveloping mine.

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