Page 95 of Gross Misconduct

“I feel great,” I say.

“I’m nervous,” Hank says.

“Don’t say that,” Des says, easily the best dressed of the team. His T-shirt and sweatpants look freshly pressed. “When you get nervous, you get gassy.”

The guys break out in laughter. Hockey players are closer with their teammates than their spouses.

“Save it for the Blades. That can be a secret weapon,” says Bill. “What do you want to order?”

I look at the menu and see chicken noodle soup. My heart dips.

“I’ll just have some oatmeal,” I say.

“You sure?” Tanner asks. “You should have something more filling.”

“The man knows his own appetite. You can turn off dad mode, Chancey,” Des tells him.

“You don’t want to eat just before a game. You could get sick,” he says back.

“Once I folded a pancake and stuck it in my sock during a game.” Hank shrugs.

“Well, if you didn’t have an appetite already, that’ll definitely kill it,” says Des.

“I’m still thinking.” I scan the menu, but the letters jumble together. I can’t enjoy this moment because my mind is elsewhere. And I realize it’s going to stay elsewhere.

The guys all turn to me when I stand up and put on my jacket.

“Where are you going?” Bill asks.

“I gotta do something before the game.” I push my chair in. “I’ll see you at the rink.”

* * *

According to Ferguson’s,it’s the heart of summer. Outdoor furniture displays and grills are showcased at the front of the store, even though it’s cold and gray outside. Seeing it makes warm weather seem even farther away.

Something that isn’t farther away is the man who blinded me in my left eye. I find Ted Gross showing a young couple a washer and dryer set. The husband opens and closes the dryer door multiple times in a row as if checking for…something. Ted is just as confused as I am.

He looks up and catches me observing the scene. He fights like hell to maintain his polite salesman grin, but the laser-focused hate radiates from his eyes.

The husband doesn’t find what he’s looking for and continues down the row of appliances, his search unfulfilled. His wife thanks Ted and shoots him an apologetic look before catching up to her spouse.

Ted flings one last glare in my direction and heads to the row of refrigerators, putting a wall of massive kitchen appliances between us.

“Ted,” I call after him.

The kitchen department of Ferguson’s is one big maze, and I am a rat going after my cheese. I chase after Ted through paths of fridges and stoves that lead to walkthrough kitchen design models. I enter a kitchen model in the back of the department with sleek marble countertops and top-of-the-line cabinetry, neither of which I could ever afford.

Ted stands at the end, next to the kitchen island, blocking my path. He crosses his arms. No polite salesman grin for me.

“What do you want?” he mutters.

“I want to talk.” I hold up my hands to show I’m serious.

“Fine. Talk.” He doesn’t relax his stance one bit.

“We can’t keep trying to beat the shit out of each other. We’re too fucking old.” My back still hurts from where he slammed me into Jack’s kitchen island. The corner of his forehead is puffy and red from where I got him. “We need to end this.”

“We can’t change the past.”

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