Page 8 of Gross Misconduct

“Jack,” I say.

“Griffin,” he says back, finding his footing.

Griffin. I like it. Good name. A name I’d be happy to scream out over and over as I’m getting railed.

“How about that drink? Unless you’re still drying off?” I ask.

He lets out a deep, grumbly laugh that seems to relax him.

A few minutes later, we’re sitting at the bar half-watching the hockey game on TV. Griffin is being the responsible one nursing his beer, while I’m going at a more accelerated pace. I don’t want to stretch this out too much. One drink and then it’s party time in the backseat of his car. I have work in the morning.

“How’s the beer?” I nod at his glass while I’m almost done with mine.

“Good,” he replies with a husky grunt that I feel in between my legs. Why the fuck did I ever waste my time hooking up with my contemporaries? Older men are where it’s at, clearly. Gimme those sweet, sweet daddy issues.

“So do you just hang out here picking up guys?” He licks foam off his top lip, sending my mind off in tantalizing scenarios.

“No. I have other bars for that. I came in here because I needed a drink. You were the pleasant surprise.”

Red pools at the top of his cheeks. He turns his attention to the game. He shakes his head. The way he intently watches, as if terrified to pull his eyes from the TV, makes me believe he’s nervous more than anything.

“Are you married?” I ask. “Because I didn’t see a ring.”

“What? No.”

I study him to make sure he’s telling the truth. I may be a slut, but I’m not a homewrecker.

“I’m divorced,” he says.

His attention returns to the TV. Is he nervous or just an asshole? Griffin doesn’t give much away.

“So here’s the thing, Griffin. When you grab a drink with someone, it’s typical to actually talk to them.”

“Sorry. I’m kinda…Sorry. I have trouble talking to cute guys.” He gives me a sheepish smile, his beard creasing to make room. There’s something oddly wholesome about it. “And it’s a good game. Although Denko is passing for shit tonight.”

It’s something I noticed, too, while I was drinking alone and watching the game. The center has had multiple passes nearly get scooped up by the other team. He’s being sloppy, something a casual viewer wouldn’t necessarily pick up on necessarily.

I flag down the bartender for a refill.

“You still play?” Griffin asks me.

“What?”

“Hockey.”

I do a double take. Usually I have to fake a recovering sports injury to tip guys off that I played. “How could you tell?”

“You have a look to you.” His gaze lingers on me. Must be a look he likes.

I thank the bartender when he returns with my drink. “Has being in the NHL permanently altered my DNA or something?”

Nobody can resist a pro athlete. Not women. Not gay men. Hell, I could probably pull my fair share of straight dudes, too.

“You’re in the NHL?” His reaction is adorable, as if he’s twelve and just met his hero.

“I was. I retired.” I snort a laugh. “Retired,” I say with air quotes.

“How old are you?”

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