Page 16 of Gross Misconduct

6

JACK

Here’s what people don’t tell you about professional athletes: most of us don’t rake in millions of dollars. A few players at the top make a shit ton of money while the rest of us fight for proverbial scraps. Most hockey players are middle class guys earning a living in a sport that has an expiration date.

We all go into the sport wanting to be one of those top players with the huge paychecks and endorsements. But for most of us, we play in their shadow. We keep our heads down, play the game. We collect a salary that most people would salivate over, but when you factor in taxes, agent fees, lawyer fees, and manager fees, and add the fact that the average career only lasts five years…that money doesn’t go as far as you think. Especially when you think the good times will last, when everyone around you is telling you you’re going to be a breakout star, so you spend like that. You can take a chance and invest in your teammate’s restaurant or a friend’s startup. You don’t need to squirrel away money for your post-hockey career because your post-career is light years away, and it will include lucrative jobs like TV commentator or head coach. For most of us, we don’t become stars. We’re just the other guys on the team supporting the star player.

When I was drafted into the league out of high school, I thought I’d made it. Everyone around me told me I’d made it. Yet in that first year, I rode the bench and got little playtime. The star players were supposed to retire, but they decided to stick around for another year. The heat around me dissipated over the season. I tell people I played for the Beavers to keep it simple, when actually I wound up getting traded to four teams in four years. I got the message: I was good enough for pro hockey, but not great.

Good enough to seduce guys into fucking me, but not great enough to make them want to stay. Once people saw the real me, a guy with no money, no career prospects, and no superstar athlete clout, they bolted. My friend with the startup and teammate with the restaurant, both of which went under? Never heard from them again, although judging by social media posts, they’re still living rich lives.

Being a hockey player with a big dick and a small bank account can only take a guy so far. Fortunately, I learned that lesson early on, so I didn’t waste my time searching for anything more than a good lay.

Althoughone guy in particularhas really messed that up for me.

“You’re late,” Dad says when I get into Ferguson’s, a big box home improvement store where my soul goes to die on a daily basis. Even though he’s wearing a garishly purple apron, he still manages to look intimidating, his chest hulking out and threatening to break the apron straps. Forty-four and still hitting the weightroom regularly. He claims it’s to relieve stress, and yet he seems perpetually at a low-grade rage.

He gets in my face and studies my eyes. “And hungover.”

As much as I want them to, my eyes can’t lie. They get super bloodshot when I drink. No amount of Visine can clear it up. It was my tell when I snuck out to drink in high school, and Dad yelled at me then. He’d get furious.You don’t go pro by getting drunk!

Nowadays he doesn’t yell. He just looks more disappointed in me than usual.

“It’s only twenty minutes. Fuentes was late picking me up,” I lie. Fuentes said I could blame him. Wasn’t like he could ever be fired from his job. He turned out to be the smartest one of all of us.

“It’s not his responsibility to be here on time. It’s yours.”

“The store doesn’t open for another forty minutes.”

“Your shift started twenty minutes ago,” he says, and that’s that. Growing up, Dad was a foreman at a factory that manufactured industrial kitchen equipment. He holds tight to clocking in on time. When the jobs were shipped overseas, he had a hard time finding something new until eventually following former coworkers to the new Ferguson’s in town. Because he doesn’t have a college degree, it’s hindered his ability to move up the ladder. That, and he isn’t the best people person. He’s gotten better about snapping at customers, but it still happens from time to time.

“Why haven’t you gotten your car fixed yet?” he asks as he adjusts a sale tag on a display.

“I’m working on it.”

Dad shakes his head, a common reaction to anything I say nowadays. He turns on his heel and walks down the large, imposing lighting aisle where every freaking lamp is on. He shakes his head, talking to himself, then swivels back to me as if we’re already in mid-conversation. “And twenty minutes is a big deal. I’ve already stuck my neck out to get you this job. The least you could do is show an ounce of respect.”

“I’m grateful. I appreciate it.” Just like Griffin appreciated my almost blow job? Now is not the time to think about that catastrophe.

“Do you? You don’t act like it.”

I get the feeling Dad wants me to thank him every single day, and even then, it wouldn’t be enough.

“Maybe my flowers got lost in the mail.”

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“I…” But there’s no valid excuse. I got too drunk, I slept too late, and I can’t afford a decent car. I’m still haunted by watching my old Audi convertible get repossessed. “I’m getting it fixed.”

“How do you really not have enough money to get your brakes fixed?”

“It’s like two grand!”

“What are your expenses? Your friend’s cutting you a good deal.”

“I still have to pay rent.”

“What about an emergency fund?”

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