Page 99 of Gross Misconduct

“Hey, you good?” Fuentes asks over the pumping music. We’re skating around the rink to warm up, stands full of spectators watching us. It’s a packed arena.

I find the coach from Hudson University watching with a trained eye on me. A pit grows in my stomach. In my high school days, when I knew a scout or coach was coming to check me out, it added fuel to my fire. Now I only have nausea.

I look away and to my surprise, my sightline lands on June and Annabelle with a woman who must be their mom. They wave little flags for their dad, their tiny bodies balancing precariously on the bleachers. They spot me and flail their arms in a wave. It’s so sweet that it nearly lifts me out of my funk.

“I’m good,” I tell Fuentes and skate off.

The crowd erupts into cheers when the Comebacks join the ice. Griffin does a lap around the rink. He shoots me a smile through his face shield.

I clock June and Annabelle going nuts for their dad. It makes me wish I had that kind of parental relationship.

The mayor makes a short speech, something about the power of community. I zone out and try to get my mindset right.

Once he’s done, we get into starting position. I face off against Bill Crandell for the puck drop. Griffin’s in back as defense, his eyes on me. I force myself to get my head in the game, but all the good juju has melted away. When I look at Bill, I see Dad’s horrified expression from the parking lot. I see my old NHL coaches telling me I’m being traded. I see Mom’s face one last time before she’s gone.

Bill gets the puck and skates right past me. It’s an embarrassing start to the game, and sets the tone for my wobbly performance. I struggle through the first period with missed passes and poor positioning that disrupt the flow of our team’s offense. I whiff several key faceoffs, leaving the defense scrambling to recover. On a crucial power play, I mishandle the puck, leading to a turnover that results in a shorthanded goal. At the end of the first period, the Comebacks are up two-zip. I skate back to the bench, head down, unable to look at my teammates.

“Hey, what’s going on out there?” Miller asks.

“Having a rough start,” I mutter. I shuffle to the opposite end of the bench, away from him and everyone. I want to be alone so I can hopefully work through my shit before the next period. But I keep thinking about how I’m a guy with no family and no job. I’m sure after this game, my friends will probably drop me, too.

That crappy mindset naturally leads to a nightmare of a second period. I can’t connect on a single pass, and every time the puck comes to me, it feels like I was handling a live grenade. I have two golden chances to bury it, wide open, and I whiff on both. My timing is off, my positioning is off, and I can feel the frustration from my teammates with every shift. I can’t stomach looking into the stands at the Hudson University coach, if he’s even still here.

Worse, each time I get into his zone, I can feel Griffin’s concerned eyes on me. With a minute left, I have a clean one-timer set up, and I still miss, leading to Griffin’s fellow defenseman scooping up the puck and scoring. I want to sink through the ice.

With one period left, the Comebacks are up four-zip.

“Dude, what the hell is going on?” Arturo asks. I skate past him without an answer. I keep my distance from my teammates on the bench. When the third and final period starts up, I’m essentially a zombie on the ice. My teammates have realized I’m useless and are avoiding me for plays, acting like I’m not even there.

“Time-out!” Griffin calls. The ref blows his whistle.

I skate to the bench. My teammates look at me like I’m crazy.

Fuentes grabs my shoulder. “Buddy, talk to me,” he pleads.

I don’t have an answer for him. I go to the bench, drink water, and sulk. I feel myself spiraling deeper into this hole.

“Gross.”

I look up and find Griffin at our bench.

“Come with me,” he says.

“You can’t call a time-out with the other team,” Fuentes says.

“I need to speak with my boyfriend,” Griffin says, shutting everyone up. He holds out his hand to me, and we skate to the center of the ice. The whole crowd murmurs, wondering what the hell is going on. I’m right there with them.

“Griffin, what are you doing?” I take off my helmet.

“Babe, what’s wrong?” His face is etched with concern. He’s not my opponent. He's in full boyfriend mode.

The way he gazes at me with that penetrating dark eye quiets all the noise around us. It’s like we’re in his truck bed at night again, the world a far-off place.

“I’m in my head, and I can’t get out.”

“What are you thinking about?”

I glance into the stands, and the Hudson University coach watches with the rest of the crowd. I’m surprised he’s still here.

---