Page 78 of Gross Misconduct

“He said he doesn’t want his picture taken.” Griffin yanks the phone out of the guy’s hand. He stands above both of us.

“Why not? I said you were good until they traded your ass.”

“Watch your language at The Pottery Palace,” Griffin growls.

They engage in a standoff that the guy knows he can’t win. He yanks his phone back and shoves it in his pocket.

“Let’s go, sweetheart.” He says to his daughter. “Asshole,” he mutters at me as he leaves.

Griffin watches him go, his eye narrowed in barely contained rage.

“That man used bad words,” Annabelle says.

“He did, love. That wasn’t nice of him.” Griffin returns to his little chair.

“The entitlement of fans. It’s a good thing you never went pro.” I sit down and laugh it off, a bit shaken.

“Does that happen often?”

“Every now and then. The fans are even more aggressive toward the star players. They feel like they have a hand in your success and are owed unlimited access to you. Usually, they don’t care much about a player like me. I’m not worth gushing over.”

“Why do you say that?” Griffin takes off his glasses, making me meet his eye.

“I mean, come on. I was a B-level player on a few teams.”

“So? You were a pro player. That’s something.”

“Maybe to some people, but it’s not as cool as you think.”

“Hey girls. Can you take these pots to the wall so they can dry?” Griffin points to the back wall of shelves filled with projects. There’s a little play area with a kiddie snack station where kids can wait until the paint dries.

Griffin scoots his chair next to me. “I didn’t want them to hear you talk shit about yourself. But why do you do it? Why do you downplay this incredible accomplishment?”

“Incredible?”

“Yes. Incredible.”

“I was a forgettable player for a few years. And now I’m washed up and broke.” I shrug, feeling more pathetic every time I hear it said aloud.

“You got the short end of the stick in the league, but that doesn’t change the fact you’re a great player. I’ve seen you. You earned your place in the NHL.” He stares at me, refusing to let me look away until I let that compute.

“Did you see the video of me crapping out with a game-losing turnover?”

“I did.”

“Wait. You did?” That was supposed to be a rhetorical question. Embarrassment swarms me.

“One of my friends found it online. I was going to share it around the league after you uploaded a video of toilet papering my truck onto YouTube. But I decided to take the high road.”

I nod my gratitude. I both love and hate the internet.

“It’s not that bad,” he says.

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Turnovers happen all the time. It’s not uncommon. I had one during a game in high school. Yours simply had higher stakes.”

Hearing Griffin acknowledge the moment with a shrug actually does make me feel better. The surge of mortification and frustration isn’t as strong this time.

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