2. Griffin
2
GRIFFIN
S ome guys decide to join a recreational hockey league to feel the thrill of competition. Others just do it for the drinking.
It’s hard to tell where my old teammates fall on this spectrum.
“To the Comebacks!” Bill says, hoisting his pint glass in the air.
Even though I’m not part of the team, I clink glasses with them. After their practice, we went to Stone’s Throw Tavern, the local watering hole in downtown Sourwood owned by Mitch, our friend with the back-breaking sneeze. It’s just off the main drag, with big windows that overlook the Hudson River. In better weather, I could spend hours in the beer garden communing with nature and my drink.
I take a gulp of my beer.
“Pace yourself, Griffin,” Bill says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Once that drink is gone, you’re cut off.” He turns to the other guys around the table. “Because he’s only having?—”
“One drink,” the guys answer in emphatic unison.
Asshats.
Bill’s face splits with laughter. Back in high school, he took hockey and life just as seriously as me. Now he’s cracking jokes and smiling for no reason. It’s unnerving.
“Des, what the hell are you drinking?” Derek Hogan asks in his laid-back drawl. He joined us at the bar once his shift at the fire station was over. He has less hair on his head than he did in high school, but he makes up for it with a thick beard.
“A mediocre martini.” Des cheers him with his glass.
I look around the table at my old teammates. We’re all older. Time has been kinder to some of us than others. It’s funny how certain parts of a person don’t change over time. Hank still has his dopey, wide smile. Des cocks his right eyebrow damn near up to his hairline in that same skeptical way when he’s listening to some bullshit story. Tanner’s eyes remain sweet as ever. Bill’s still got his bulbous nose.
Some of us take a sip of our beer, and some of us gulp it down. Instead of sneaking beer and drinking in a parking lot, we can buy it at a bar. It’s not as fun, though. When you’re a teenager, nobody tells you how expensive drinks can be.
And this drink is costing more than cash. It’s like those timeshare presentations you have to sit through to get a free vacation. Bill turns to me and begins his pitch, telling me all about the Hudson Valley Adult Hockey League. It’s for experienced adult hockey players who want a fast and competitive league. Games are once a week for seventy-five minutes. The spring season starts up in a few weeks. I can see the machinations moving in his head. He may be smiling and laughing, but Bill Crandell is still a competitive son of a bitch who wants to win.
“You guys have a good roster. You don’t need me,” I say.
“With Mitch out, we’re down a man. I want another Husky out there, a guy I know can get the job done.” Bill’s eyes rest on me for a beat.
“That’s where you come in, Griffdog.” Des points at me and winks.
“Look, I know it’s been a while since any of us played. Some are rustier than others.” Bill cocks an eye at Hank.
“Sorry I didn’t spend my thirties doing fucking squats,” Hank shoots back. “But on the bright side, I got a bigger stomach so I can cover more of the net.” He tosses a peanut into his mouth, pleased with his math.
“We’re rusty, but we’re not out. We’re still champions,” Bill continues, that competitive zing lighting up his eyes. “I’ve seen the other teams practicing. They’re good, but we’re better. We’re unstoppable.”
“We were,” I note.
“Are,” Bill emphasizes back. “We’ll shake off the malaise of suburban and dad life.”
“I don’t have dad malaise.” Des gleefully sips his martini with the calm of a proud, childfree bachelor who has never known a three a.m. feeding or toddler tantrum.
“What do you do with all your free time?” Tanner asks.
“Sex. And shopping. And now hockey.” Des chows down on his martini-soaked olive.
“I could make a more effective pitch if you fuckers didn’t keep interrupting me.” Bill rolls his eyes, although since the rest of us have kids, we’re all a bit envious of Des’s freedom.
“I’m gonna stop you, Bill.” I put my hand on his shoulder before he gets himself revved up. “I wish I could help you guys out, but I haven’t played since…”
My throat gets tight. The urge to touch my left eye burns through my fingers, but I resist calling more attention. The scratch of the patch digs into my skin.
“Admit it: you just wear that eye patch to scare us,” Hank says, wiping peanut dust off his shirt.
I shoot him a scowl worthy of the penalty box.
“And it works,” he says with a nervous gulp.
In the wake of the incident, I went through multiple surgeries to get it fixed, and for a while, it seemed like my left eye was improving. Not long after, a sports website chased me down and convinced me to do an interview. I thought that if scouts read about my restored vision, a miracle after multiple surgeries, they’d consider giving me another chance. But when I went on the ice to show the reporter that I still had the goods, I got so dizzy from blurriness, I threw up. The miracle was short-lived.
Alas, I got no calls. I was officially washed up before my twenty-first birthday, so I couldn’t even legally drown my sorrows.
Technically, I can still see a little out of my left eye, but it’s so blurry and disorienting that it’s easier to wear the patch.
“If there’s a time of day where you have less eye strain, we can accommodate practices,” Derek says, looking at Bill for confirmation. Tanner nods along in eager agreement. They’re really trying to woo me. I can’t help but feel a bit puffed up by it. They really think I’ve still got it?
“You want a guy with a bum eye on the ice with you? I thought you wanted to win.” I snort out a laugh.
“If it was anyone else’s eye, I’d say no way. But a one-eyed Griff Harper is still a better hockey player than most guys with 20/20 vision. Bottom line, Griff: I know what happened in high school was fucked up. It was.” He lets out a quick sigh. The other guys get serious. They were all bystanders, but the memory haunts them, too.
Bill bangs his fist on the table causing our glasses to rattle. “But dammit, you can still play. I know you can still play. We made magic once before. We can do it again. Show these young guns that the Comebacks still have it!”
He always had a knack for motivational speeches. Even our coach admitted that Bill’s were better than his.
Fuck, I want to believe. I want to let the hope and passion enveloping his words lift me up, like I’m a lost parishioner in a preacher’s tent. I almost get there, too. I let myself dream about playing again, the feel of the stick in my hands, the high that comes with the crack of slapping the puck into the goal. When I was eighteen, my hockey career went down in flames, and unfortunately, it needs to stay there.
“Sorry, guys.” I pull on a smile to lighten the mood. “My hockey days are over.”
Their faces sink, some more than others.
“But the next round is on me,” I quickly add, and that gets a round of cheers. We may not be teammates anymore, but we can be drinking buddies.
* * *
It’s amazing how fast time can speed by when hanging out with good friends. We spend the evening sharing old memories and catching up, laughing until it hurts. It’s been months since we’ve all gotten together, but it feels like no time has passed. That’s the power of a strong friendship. We share recent stories about our kids, each time Des chiming in that he’s so glad he doesn’t have them. I may not be playing hockey with them, but I’d gladly join them for after-game drinks. I thought I’d spend a half hour tops at Stone’s Throw, but another ninety minutes fly by.
The only thing that pulls me from the conversation is the feeling of eyes on me throughout the evening.
I scan the bar for the culprit, a bit of a challenge with the dark lighting. Through the noise and hubbub, I spot a guy at the bar. Broad shoulders. Fit body. Short, tousled dirty blond hair. My heart makes an extra-deep thump in my chest, wondering if we’ll make eye contact, and wondering what that would be like. The bartender hands him another beer, grabbing his attention and snuffing out whatever moment I thought I felt.
“Did you see someone you recognize?” Bill asks.
“No. I thought I did.” I brush it off and return to my friends. Des is so fired up about something, his cheeks redden.
“Hold up, Tanner. Did you actually say you wanted to have another kid?” Des’s eyes spring open in shock and horror. “You already have four!”
“Lulu is already four years old. I miss having a little baby.” Chance gets moony-eyed about the prospect.
A flash of panic zips through me. I barely have a handle on co-parenting two.
“I don’t know how you do it, man. One tired me out,” says Derek, whose daughter is in high school.
“It’s really not that bad. Lena is thirteen, so she helps with the younger ones,” he says. “And I always wanted a big family. I’d hoped I wouldn’t be doing it on my own, but such is life.” Tanner shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t seem mad or bitter about his late wife. He takes it in stride and with the loving way he’s talked about his kids, has an aura of gratitude driving him. I could learn a thing or two.
“I don’t know why you’ve all chosen to do this to yourselves,” Des says, sipping his martini.
“Do what?” Bill asks.
“Procreate.” Des checks himself out in the window reflection and fixes the lapel of his blazer, which probably cost more than my whole wardrobe combined. “When I turned twenty-one, I got myself a vasectomy and a bottle of Macallan single malt scotch. I don’t need little Des crotch goblins roaming this earth. Best investment I ever made.”
“Is it? Do you still need a vasectomy if, you know…” Hank waves his hand, hoping Des will fill in the blank.
“You know what?” Des mimics his fluttering hand.
“You know…” Hank raises his eyebrows in addition to his hand, abandoning any attempt at being subtle.
“The only thing I know is that your body seems to be malfunctioning right now.”
“Because of the t-e-s-t-c. Wait. t-e-s-t-i-s-t. Fuck.” Hank scratches at his thick eyebrow. “Does anyone know how to spell testicular cancer?”
“How the CIA never thought to recruit you is beyond me,” says Des.
“Does your missing ball ever tingle, like a phantom limb?” Hank wonders. He’s never shy about asking weird questions, and frankly, it’s one we’ve been curious about since the operation.
“It’s not missing, Hank. There isn’t a picture of my nut on a milk carton somewhere.” Des knits his eyebrows together. “My other guy is strong as hell and punching above its weight. It could get a woman pregnant if it wanted to. Ergo, the vasectomy.”
Hank throws up his hands in surrender.
“At least I have Griffdog, my brother in removed body parts.” Des holds out his fist. My left eye wasn’t removed, but I’m not gonna leave him hanging.
We bump fists, and for some reason, I instinctively turn to the bar for the mysterious blond. I feel eyes on me again, sending a current of excitement across my chest.
“Now that we’ve discussed hockey, there’s another important topic we need to cover,” Hank says, hunching forward in his seat. “Griffdog’s sex life.”
I feel my face go white. The guys all voice their enthusiasm to my dismay. I chug the rest of my beer. “Where the fuck is this coming from? Why don’t we start with you, Hank?”
“A big, fat zero. There’s an app that lets you display your dating profile in Times Square, so I may look into that.”
“Buddy, we’re just a little concerned.” Tanner massages my shoulder. His big, blue eyes have the same calming effect as staring into the ocean. “You came out two years ago, which was a really brave and exciting move. You finally decided to live your truth, as my eldest says. But since then, you’ve never mentioned a boyfriend or even a date.”
“Or a hookup,” adds Hank.
“Your hand must be exhausted ,” Des says.
It’s not too tired to flip him the bird.
My lack of dating life is something I hadn’t thought about until I was put on the spot. Our power to compartmentalize and ignore things about ourselves is unlimited. I realize I look like a gay in name only.
Did Mr. Eyes hear any of this? And why do I care what Mr. Eyes thinks?
“We want to see you get laid,” says Des. “Well, not actually see it because that would haunt my dreams. But hear about it. You know that you won’t find a group of guys more accepting. You’re in good company. Derek’s dating a guy. Mitch is married to one. Tanner took an online quiz and discovered he’s demisexual. I’ll fuck anything that walks. Hank made out with a guy at my New Year’s party.”
“I’m feeling my post-divorce self. I kissed a boy and I liked it. Well, not a boy. A man. Well over eighteen. I think he was thirty-four. His tongue was like the Tasmanian Devil, in a good way.” Hank runs his fingers over his lips, smiling at the memory. “But I don’t want to have sex with you, Griff, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Shame,” I deadpan. I’m glad times have changed where we could all discuss this freely. Feeling oddly emboldened, I glance up to see if Mr. Eyes is looking at me again. He’s chatting with the bartender.
Tanner rubs my shoulder for support. “I think one of the great things about getting older is discovering hidden parts of yourself. Once I turned forty, I got a lot more honest with myself. I loved my wife dearly, but then I could also see myself falling in love with a guy.”
I wonder how many people came out to themselves thanks to online quizzes. Wasting time on the internet had never been so beneficial.
“I’m happy for you guys. But I’m doing fine. I’m focusing on my job and my girls. I’m not looking for anything.”
“I said that, too, and then I met Cary. There’s a right person out there for you,” Derek says of his over-caffeinated boyfriend, and stupidly, I think of Mr. Eyes. My heart stops when I catch him glancing at me. Is he flirting? Am I flirting back? Is it pathetic that this is the closest I’ve gotten to dating since I came out?
“We haven’t brought it up in a while because we assumed you’d tell us if you had something to share. We love sharing,” Bill says.
“Yeah, I forgot to mention that Bill is balling his assistant.” Des shoots Bill a wink and gets punched in the shoulder.
“Tate isn’t my assistant anymore. And we didn’t start anything until after he quit.”
“Technically, that’s not true.” Hank raises his eyebrows as he takes a drink.
Bill turns to me, ignoring Hank-bait for once. “It’s been about a month that Tate and I have been together.”
“Their first date was on Valentine’s Day. Awwww.” Des makes a heart with his hands.
“Like you, it took me a while to be honest with myself about my interest in guys. Even then, I thought my chance for something real with anyone had passed me by. Love stories don’t star guys in their forties. Every time I saw Tate in the office and felt that fire, a tiny part of me would hope that we could have a happy ending. And then one night…one incredible night changed everything.”
Bill Crandell gets goopy with an emoji-like smile, a sight I never thought I’d see. Well, this explains why he’s not the grumpy asshole that I used to play hockey with. Love has made him happy, almost…cheerful. It’s hard to watch.
“I’m still feeling myself post-divorce.” I nudge Hank’s arm, hoping he’ll back me up.
“The point is to get other people to feel you,” he says back.
“Coming out’s supposed to be the hard part. And then knocking boots with hot guys is the reward,” says Des. “Why aren’t you giving yourself the reward?”
“It’s because he doesn’t like fun,” Hank says.
“I do like fun.”
This is the first time in my life when I could be free and live openly. I could actually date someone. And yet something inside has been holding me back, a little voice of doubt that comes out muffled but still audible. It’s scary diving into something new in your forties, even scarier when that new thing is sex.
“Can we change the fucking subject?” I ask. “Hank, tell me more about the guy with the Tasmanian Devil tongue.”
* * *
About twenty minutes later, we say our goodbyes. I let myself enjoy my beer and the time to myself. My ex-wife Carmen has the girls this week. That’s one of the upsides to divorce, a few childfree nights to myself.
The last droplets of beer hit my throat. I glance over to find Mr. Eyes still at the bar watching a hockey game on TV. Still sexy. When I played, I didn’t let any guy scare me. I could handle them all. But at Stone’s Throw Tavern, I find myself a nervous mess.
Especially when Mr. Eyes turns and winks at me.
Shit.
I nod back, doing the decent thing of acknowledging him. I raise my glass to take a sip, and it takes me a few seconds to remember it was empty and that I’m sucking back air.
It’s time I get the hell out of there.
I calmly yet quickly escape to the bathroom to splash water on my face. I am out and proud. My family is okay with it. So are my friends. I could live my truth. I could do whatever I wanted with a guy without feeling guilt or shame. Yet, here I am hiding in the bathroom.
I’m not hiding. I’m leaving.
I splash another round of water on my face. I go to grab a paper towel and find none. Just the air dryer.
Water drips down my face. I can’t go out in the cold with a wet face. I can’t let Mr. Eyes see me like that and assume I fell in the toilet. Not that I care what he thinks.
I squat under the blower and push it on. Some air dryers blow a normal amount of air. Others blast so much it’s like they’re launching a rocket into space. This one was the latter. Hot jets of ferocious air explode at my face nearly sending me falling to my ass. I clench my eyes shut to keep from going blind. My eyebrows and beard hang on for dear life as my skin ripples with the sheer force of the blower.
Finally, the fiery hell stops. I catch my breath and touch my face, making sure it’s still in one piece. My skin is on fire, but dry.
When I’m able to open my eye, I see a pair of gray ones staring back at me.
Mr. Eyes.
And those dark, fearless, penetrating orbs of his? Even more beautiful than I imagined.
He leans against the sink. “So, are you going to buy me a drink or what?”