Page 77 of Gross Misconduct

“Daddy’s building us our own ice castle in the backyard for our birthday,” Annabelle says.

“Like the one inFrozen,” June says.

I look to Griffin who confirms it with a nod.

“You’re building them an actual castle?” Growing up, I never got anything like that. All my gifts were hockey related, no matter what was on my wish list. And here this guy is, building a freaking castle for his girls in honor of their favorite movie.

With each second that passes, it’s getting harder to want to kick Griffin’s ass on the ice, and even harder to pretend my attraction to him is purely for the good juju.

Griffin puts on a pair of black-framed reading glasses and rolls up his sleeves to get into painting mode. I, in turn, want to fucking melt. Beefy guys who wear glasses is an irresistible combo. And glasses over an eye patch? It hits the spectrum from nerd to badass all in one.

“You’ve broken out the glasses.” I scoff, because I don’t know how to handle his insane hotness, and so I must make fun of it.

“You’ll need them one day. All those hits to the head add up.”

“So far I’m still twenty-twenty.” I flick my paintbrush at the vase, following June’s lead.

Griffin helps Annabelle paint in a straight line, ensuring the yellow stripe doesn’t bleed into the orange one. I could watch him with his girls all day.

“Dad, what do you think of this?” June shows off her vase.

“I love it.”

She holds it up to me for approval. I give it a thumbs up.

“Thanks for spending your Saturday afternoon with us,” Griffin says.

“I like people who are no BS.” It’s fun talking to a kid with no agenda except curiosity.

Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I worry I’m being too loud. Another dad with his daughter stands over me.

“You’re Jack Gross.”

“I am.” I pray this isn’t a bill collector or process server.

“I watched you play for Wichita when I lived there.”

Now I wish it was a process server. A fan? I get a flash of nausea. I feel exposed in a way that’s hard to describe.

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

“I remember this one game, when you made this pass to Marceau, it flew across the ice right to his stick. The accuracy was amazing.”

I was never sure how to handle these interactions when I was active in the NHL, on the rare occasions they did happen. “Thanks for being a fan.”

“It’s a shame they didn't keep you on.” His comment hangs in the air as if he expects me to respond. My stomach only twists further into a knot. “Can I get a selfie with you?”

“Um, actually, I’m with my friends.”

“Yeah, but it’ll only take a second. Just one picture. Come on. I’m with my kid, too.” He points to his daughter as leverage.

“I get that. I can autograph something for you if you want. I just don’t feel comfortable with pictures being taken.”

“Don’t feel comfortable? What are you talking about?” He laughs it off. Fans can go from fawning to your entitled master in a finger snap. “Just take the picture.”

“Like I said, I can autograph something for you, but I don’t want to take a picture.”

“What’s your problem? You should be lucky someone’s interested in taking your picture.”

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