Page 25 of Gross Misconduct

I leave Marcy’s office and pass a group of figure skaters practicing triple axels on the ice. I call an Uber, ignoring how much it’s going to cost. The faster I can get away from Griffin, the better. I hate that I still think he’s cute even though he has such a low opinion of me.

“Jack.”

Fuck. Griffin jogs to catch up to me outside. I try to ignore how good his chest and belly look in flannel.

“Where’s your car?” he asks.

“I called an Uber.”

His eyebrows jump. “Nice life,” he says.

I don’t bother correcting him about my financial status.

“Jack,” he begins, then trails off.

“You’re trying to get me thrown out of the league?”

“You’re a ringer!” He clenches his eyes shut then reopens them, calmer. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re a sore loser.”

“And refusing to get off the ice so we could practice? Acting like a total asshole? What do you call that?”

Fire blazes up my neck at the accusation. “I can’t believe you tried to get me ejected. And that you thought it would work.”

“I didn’t expect someone who played professionally would want to join a league like ours. Especially because you didn’t seem in love with the sport the other night.”

I step closer, my scowl shushing him good. “You don’t say another word about the other night, okay?”

I want it wiped from my memory. I want the warm and fuzzy feeling it still gives me to vanish for good. The Uber remains five minutes away. Fuck.

“Look, if we’re going to be in the same league, it’s best that we clear the air,” he says, putting on his best captain voice.

I sit on a bench and cross my arms. “Okay. Clear it.”

Griffin stumbles, his face going white again. “I…I had a great time with you the other night. You’re funny, smart, warm.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Are you giving me a break-up speech?”

“What? No. We were talking and getting along?—”

“Getting along?” That is by far the worst euphemism for flirting I’ve ever heard.

“I didn’t know where you were taking me.”

“Did you think I was kidnapping you?”

“I thought we were going to grab coffee or something,” Griffin says, each word in his excuse another car in this pileup.

“Grab coffee? In the middle of the night?”

“And then suddenly we’re on a rooftop.”

“You make eyes at a guy?—”

“You made eyes at me first,” he objects.

“You have a drink with him. You flirt with him. You leave with him. You go to a quiet, secluded place with him. What did you think was going to happen on that rooftop, Griffin? We were going to play Scrabble and make friendship bracelets? There was really no other time during the evening when you could’ve bailed. You had to wait until I was on my knees like a fool?” I could use some yoga to keep my embarrassment at bay. I hate that I was made a fool, and Griffin won’t even own up to it.

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