Page 9 of Gross Misconduct

“Twenty-four. Not a fan of early bird specials. Yet.”

“Fuck. Were you really in the NHL?”

“I really was. Four whole years.”

“Why’d you stop?”

I find myself without a witty reply. Guys don’t tend to ask me that. They’re too bowled over by me playing in the NHL at all. “One too many concussions.”

Griffin nods, instantly getting it.

“I’m glad I was able to play professionally.”

“Who did you play for?”

“The Beavers.”

“You miss the Pacific Northwest?”

I seesaw my head. “Depends on the weather.”

“How’d you wind up back here?” Griffin’s eye lights up with questions.

“I’m from the area. I love it here. My condo at the Bellmore has a sweet view of the river. And I wanted to be close to family. They’re my rock.” I’m proud of myself for getting that out without throwing up in my mouth.

“You live at the Bellmore. Fancy.” Griffin raises his eyebrows, his left one peeking up from the eye patch.

“It’s all right. I like its security. Some fans can be a little too passionate.”

“What’s your full name?” Griffin takes out his phone. He has to hold it at his right side to see, which I find adorable.

I push the phone down. “It’s kinda rude to Wikipedia a guy you’re flirting with while he’s sitting next to you.”

“Sorry. You’re right.” He puts his phone down as blush reddens his cheeks for a moment. “What position did you play?”

“You want to know my positions, you’re gonna have to buy us another round.”

He lets out another grumbly laugh, and I can tell it comes from a deep, genuine place inside him. The kind of laugh one doesn’t deploy during small talk.

Griffin stares at the wall of bottles, his jaw getting tight for a moment. “Fuck. You played in the NHL.”

“It was pretty sweet, I won’t lie.” My stomach twists in a cruel knot. Some lies are easier than others. I put my hand over it to chill.

“That’s…nice. Really nice.” There’s a melancholy dip in his voice, a gray cloud passing over his excitement. “You lived the dream.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t minimize it. You worked damn hard since you were a kid to make it into the NHL. You should be proud, Jack.”

The passion in his voice jars me a little. Griffin isn’t one for surface level conversation I’m noticing; his genuine aura is refreshing.

I regale him with a few stories about my time playing in the NHL, only sharing the fun, cool moments, the things that people want to hear about. If one wants to get laid, one does not bring up the downsides of being a pro athlete. I rub my leg against his, touch his thick arm repeatedly during my stories. I need to keep this plane on course.

But I also find myself talking more than I want, something I do when I’m excited. Typically, I engage in some small talk, bump some uglies, and call it a night. There isn’t much excitement in a sure thing. Most guys aren’t a mystery, or at least not one worth solving. There’s something about Griffin, his nervousness mixed with his guardedness, that makes me keep wanting to peel back layers.

“What’s your story?” I ask, eager for more clues to this puzzle. “You obviously know the game. Were you in the minors?”

“I played in high school.”

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