7. Griffin
7
GRIFFIN
M y former teammates watch from the front steps of Summers Rink slack-jawed as I walk up the concrete, cracked-filled path, two big lampposts guiding my way. It’s still dark out this early in the morning, but even with my eye closed, I could make it to the front door. The building is at the end of a cul-de-sac in an office park, the pot of nondescript gold at the end of a winding path of anonymous buildings and warehouses. Were it not for the skate logo on the front door, nobody would ever know this was a hockey rink, the place where legends were born and built. Also the place with free skate most afternoons.
“Holy crap,” Tanner says.
“He lives,” Des remarks.
Bill and I exchange a nod of acknowledgment.
Hank starts a slow clap, which the others join in on. It reaches its deafening climax when I reach the front door. Nobody ever saw a bunch of guys this excited before six in the morning.
I want to tell them to shut up, but I find myself the teensiest bit choked up. I don’t deserve any of this fanfare, but I’m grateful they think I do. I missed the camaraderie of a team as much as the game itself.
“I told you stripping telegrams work!” Hank says to Bill.
“He’s back, gents. He’s fucking back.” Bill claps me on the shoulder and guides me through the door.
“I showed up at a practice. One practice,” I tell him. It doesn’t mean I’m going to be a permanent fixture on the team. I have no idea if I can still play.
“We’ll take it one practice at a time. We got the lineup back. The original lineup.” Bill rubs his hands together. We were unstoppable. Me, Bill, Des, Tanner, Hank, and Derek. I don’t know if history can repeat itself, but we’ll sure as hell see.
We all walk down the hallway, past bulletin boards and flyers advertising peewee leagues and lessons. I come here regularly to skate, never to play. It’s a familiar place, but this morning, it feels different.
Bill checks his watch, then peeks in at the rink. “There’s another team just finishing up their practice. Gents, finish up your snacks, and then let’s get suited up.”
Hank crams another breakfast bar in his mouth. He rips open a fresh box and offers them around.
We go into the locker room, the rank smell a primal sensory memory of playing in high school. No amount of air freshener can rid this place of its signature stank. We get into our gear and skates. I found pads and a jersey at a resale shop since my old stuff is too small. But my skates still fit like a glove. And my stick feels warm in my hand.
I check myself out in the mirror. Fuck. I’m really doing this. I’m actually going to play hockey.
“Looking good, Griffdog.” Hank claps me on the shoulder. Like me, his gear is a mix of pieces from different sets. We look like hockey quilts, but damn if we don’t look good.
My teammates and I exit the locker room back into the main hallway. The team on the ice is fully engulfed in their practice with no sign of stopping. They’re also adorned in matching black uniforms.
Des lets out a yawn. “Where the fuck is he?”
“Who?” I ask.
Just then, Derek bursts through the front door carrying two trays of large coffees.
“Here you go.” He doles out the coffees. “Look who the heck it is.”
His face lights up when he sees me then pulls me into a bear hug.
“Where’ve you been?” Hank asks, nearly chugging his coffee.
“I just got off a twenty-hour shift at the firehouse. I’m going to practice for an hour and then go home and collapse.” Derek leans against the wall. He’s the only one who got iced coffee, even though it’s cold out. He looks at me and cocks an eyebrow. “You sure you want to get back into bed with these animals?”
“Don’t scare him away. We finally got him to say yes,” Tanner says.
“Chance, how the fuck are you so alert at this ungodly hour?” Des asks, sipping his coffee as if it’s literally giving him life.
“I’ve been up since 4:12 this morning. Dean had a nightmare and then wanted to build blocks,” Tanner says, as if it’s a regular day for him.
“I wouldn’t wake up that early unless I was catching a flight.” Des shakes his head.
I’ve been there, as have all of the other dads. Sometimes, you just know it’s going to be an extra-long day.
I gulp down the coffee, the refreshing liquid so soothing and rich that I have to remind myself not to chug it or else I’ll burn my throat. “This is amazing.”
“Caroline’s,” Derek says.
“This is Caroline’s coffee?” Caroline’s is the greasy spoon diner in town. They’re known for having a varied menu, with all of the entrées being good, not great. I imagined their coffee was whatever was on sale at the store.
“It is. They import it from somewhere. Cary is a coffee fiend, which is odd since he’s naturally caffeinated.”
I’m still wrapping my head around Derek being bi. And Bill. And Hank making out with a guy with a Tasmanian Devil tongue? It’s a new world, and I’m glad I live in it.
“Go change,” Des says to Derek, pointing to the locker room.
Bill paces outside the rink, a tight grimace on his face. “They really should be finishing up by now. Some of us need to get to the office.”
“You have emails to send, assistants to bang,” Des says.
“For the last time, Tate was not my assistant when we got together.” He whacks the back of his hand at Des’s crotch.
“I’m wearing a cup, baby. But if you want my dick, just ask.” Des winks at him.
“Speaking of dicks,” Hank begins, and I know this sentence won’t end well, especially when he turns to me. “I think something went down with you and the blond at the bar the other night.”
“The blond that Griff was blatantly checking out?” Des asks. The other guys gather around.
Shit. And I thought I was being subtle. I really am a newb at this stuff.
“After we left, I had to drive back because I forgot my phone,” Hank says. “I like to play this game that’s basically a Tetris rip-off when I’m on the can. I left my phone on top of the toilet at Stone’s Throw.”
“Why are you giving us all of this unnecessary detail?” Des asks.
“I like my stories to have texture. Anyway, when I went back to the bar, Griff’s car was still there. I asked the bartender, and he said Griff left with…” Hank does a drumroll on the bulletin board, making me blush even more. “The Blond!”
The guys let out loud ooooohs and whistles like they’re audience members in the cheesy sitcom known as my life. I want to deny it, but there’s too much evidence. My face feels so red it could be mistaken for Mars.
“Maybe they just left the bar at the same time by coincidence,” Tanner says.
Hank lets out a booooo like he’s now an audience member at a trashy talk show.
“You can tell us what happened, Griffdog.” Des throws an arm around me. “Did you finally pop your gay cherry?”
I flash back to the rooftop, when all the green lights were there. Jack was gorgeous. He was a key unlocking all of my deepest fears and secrets. How was it so easy to talk to him when I barely knew him? How could I pass all these guys in public and feel nothing, and then spend a few hours with Jack and feel everything?
And then how could I walk away from the greatest kiss of my life, a kiss I initiated?
My head was still a mess from that night. My heart was in worse shape. It shouldn’t be possible to feel a connection like this with someone so quick.
“Nothing happened,” I tell them. It’s mostly the truth, which makes it easier to hide what did happen.
“Nothing?” Hank asks, deflated. “I’ll bet he was into you. Even for a hot night.”
I’m still kicking myself for getting scared and waiting until the last minute to pump the brakes. But I don’t know if I’m built for meaningless flings.
“Maybe it could’ve been something more serious,” says Tanner, perhaps reading my mind. His eyes widen with eternal hope.
I shake my head no. As a divorced, has-been athlete with one fucked-up eye, I don’t bring much to the table. And very quickly, Jack would’ve realized that. I’d rather wonder about what could’ve been than deal with the cruel rejection reality would’ve brought.
“Bill, what do you think?” Hank asks our captain, pacing furiously by the rink.
“I think this team needs to get the hell off the ice. Grab your skates and sticks. We’re going in.”
We march up to the rink. The team is deep into sprints, seeming to have no intention of winding down.
“Hey!” Bill calls out. They ignore him. “Hello! This is our practice time,” he yells.
“They’re fucking with us,” I say under my breath. In hockey, actions matter infinitely more than words. I step onto the ice and stop a puck in the middle of a passing drill.
“Hey!” I yell as loud and forcefully as I can. I pick up the puck and throw it onto the bench. “You’re on our time.”
I motion for my teammates to join me on the ice. It’s quite a contrast, our mishmash of hockey gear versus their sleek, matching black uniforms with a stick logo that could double as a knife, but I don’t let it intimidate me.
“We have the rink now for practice,” I say to the sea of black. “Who’s your captain?”
A guy skates forward from the pack. He takes off his helmet, and my head and my heart and the rest of me plummet through my skates.
Jack might be wearing a hockey uniform and bulky gear, but that spiky blond hair and thin-lipped smile is unmistakable.
“Nice to see you again.” An amused grin hits his lips as he silently puts all the pieces together.
My mouth goes dry. Seeing him in person again reminds me of how gorgeous he is, how my body craves his features.
“Jack,” I say, my body tingling at the sound of his name on my tongue.
“Of all the ice rinks…” There’s a menacing calm to him that makes me believe that any intention he had of wrapping up his team’s practice is long gone now that he sees me. He skates to the center of the rink.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“We have to practice,” he says. “First game of the season is coming up.”
“For the rec league?”
He nods, completely unfazed at seeing me. He hasn’t flinched once, whereas I feel stark naked despite wearing an ungodly amount of gear.
“You’re playing in the league? But it’s for amateurs only. Not for professional hockey players.” I skate closer and catch a glorious whiff of him, sending me back to that rooftop.
“I’m not currently in the NHL. So according to the league’s rulebook…I’m a Blade.” He high-fives his teammates.
“This is an extracurricular league. Guys play for fun.”
“Really? Because you seem like a guy who isn’t capable of fun. You seem like a guy who might seem like he’s up for fun, but then actively pushes fun away.” Jack shrugs his shoulders, a coldness permeating his fake smile.
Fuck. This is a non-checking league, but Jack’s going to shove the shit out of me the first chance he gets.
“If any of you dinosaurs have an issue with my playing, you can take it up with the league,” Jack hollers over to my teammates.
“Dinosaurs?” Des cries out. “We’re not even fifty!”
“Well, good for you,” Jack shoots back. “We can’t be held responsible for any broken hips on the ice. And nice jerseys. Very homey.” He looks back at his teammates, who chuckle at the joke. “Anyway, this is our ice. We have it booked.”
“No. We have it booked,” I growl. I skate up to his face. I still got about two inches on him.
“Actually, we have it booked.” Jack skates to the players’ bench where his phone rests. He pulls up an app noting the time blocked off.
“The rink has an app?” I teepee my eyebrows together as I study his phone screen. I turn back to Bill for backup. He skates forward.
“I made the reservation on the website. Maybe their systems aren’t synched,” Bill says.
“Well, cry into your flip phones. We have this rink, and we gotta practice.” One of Jack’s teammates fishes out the puck and brings it over to him.
“Look, we were probably double-booked. It happens,” Bill says, trying to keep the peace. Jack just keeps glaring at me. “You guys got some practice in. We need to get some practice in. We’ll each have an abbreviated practice today, and we’ll get it squared away for the future.”
I look to Jack and give him a nod. It can’t get any more fair than that.
Jack doesn’t blink. “Nope. We were here first. You can hang out on the bleachers until we’re done.”
“You fucking serious?” Bill hisses. I block him from charging into Jack, which is like holding back a bull. It only makes Jack chuckle.
“Bill, I got this. Go back with the guys.” I give him a reassuring nod. Bill stares down Jack as he skates away backward.
I get closer to Jack so nobody else can hear us. “Look, I can explain about the other night. You don’t have to take it out on my teammates.”
Jack throws his head back and lets out a laugh as plastic as my helmet. “Griffin, that’s rich. Don’t worry. The other night meant absolutely nothing to me.”
He doesn’t blink when he says it. It’s a chainsaw ripping through my heart.
“I had a conversation about hockey with a guy who, it turns out, couldn’t get it up. I know that’s common with guys your age. Whatever.”
“What? Uh, no. No, no, no.” I might have no experience with guys, but I definitely wouldn’t have trouble in that department. With a mouth as acidic as his, I’m glad my dick got nowhere near it.
Jack skates in a circle around me. “How about we play for it?” He asks loudly enough so guys on both teams can hear.
“For the rink time?” I ask as he nods.
“One-on-one. First one to score, their team can practice today. Loser has to find a new time slot.”
“Deal,” I say without giving it much thought. Sure, Jack was a pro hockey player, but in an alternate world, I could’ve been, too. I can take him.
“Hell yeah! Let’s go Griffdog!” Bill shouts. My teammates join in, bolstering me with support. Jack thinks he’s such hot shit. He’s about to get his ass kicked.
He flashes me one more cocky smirk that gets me funny in the tummy. I clench myself. I’m here to win. No, not win. To wipe the floor with this guy.
The Comebacks and the Blades skate to their respective sides and watch from their team benches, whooping and cheering us on. Jack and I skate to the center of the ice.
“First one to score a goal,” he says.
We shake on it.
I place the puck between us. We knock sticks three times, then we’re off. Or rather, Jack is off. His stick catches the puck so fast it defies physics. Before I can register, he’s zooming down the ice. I break away to catch up to him, pushing off so hard my legs build with soreness, which I ignore. I’ve had no chance to warm up, and my body is still asleep, not to mention this is the first hockey I’ve played since I was eighteen.
But I can still take him.
He pulls his stick back to shoot, taking a few seconds of sweet time, and I swipe the puck away. I bolt to my end of the rink.
A gust of wind rushes through my beard. I don’t get halfway to the goal before Jack is in front of me, slapping my stick away and stealing back the puck. I recover quickly, but he already has the puck in his possession.
I don’t let up. The cheers of my teammates infuse me with power. I skate backward blocking his path. His glinting blue eyes catch on me, transfixing me for half a second I can’t give away, but damn are they gorgeous. Even if they’re narrowed at me.
I keep skating backward trying to wrangle the puck from his stick, but Jack’s too fast with his stick handling, shuffling it like a three-card monte. He tries to skate around me, but he senses I won’t let up.
“You handle that puck well,” I say.
“Not as well as I would’ve handled your cock.”
His blunt admission makes my mind go to a very dirty place. The distraction is just long enough for Jack to shoot the puck between my skates and into the goal.
The Blades cheer from the sidelines. The Comebacks not so much.
Jack’s teammates surround him in victory. Between the gap of bodies, I can feel Jack’s eyes on me. They’re staring the sharpest of daggers.