10. Griffin
10
GRIFFIN
B ill squared away the rink space issue with Marcy during the week. She’s not the type to apologize, but rather blamed it on the digital upgrade that she’s been forced to adopt. She was able to schedule our practices on Thursday evenings. Bill wondered if he should say something to Marcy about getting back our old time. We lost it fair and square to the Blades though, something that makes my blood boil all over again now that I know the truth. We couldn’t tattle to the teacher.
I get to the rink after work and feel like I’ve stepped into a daycare. Tanner’s kids are running up and down the bleachers playing tag, screaming and laughing. Hank’s son Brody sits on the top bleacher with a textbook open on his lap. The inane chatter of a YouTube personality echoes from the tablet of Rowan, Bill’s daughter. It’d be nice if Annabelle and June were able to come to a practice once. Something to work on with Carmen. Hearing about my eye injury turned her completely off hockey.
“I bet Wayne Gretzky never had to put up with this,” Des mutters as we get onto the ice.
“You won’t even notice they’re here!” Tanner says, ever the optimist.
“Dad! Davy won’t share his tennis ball!” yells his six-year-old son, Dean.
“Davy, share your tennis ball!” Tanner responds from the ice in his best calm-dad voice.
“No. I found it on the ground. It’s mine. I already licked it!” Nine-year-old Davy says.
“Well, you can’t argue with that logic,” Des snarks to me.
Tanner turns to us. “One second. I’ll be right back. Start without me.”
He darts off the ice. Des claps me on the shoulder. “Thanks for losing us our morning slot, champ.”
“It’s all right. This is a challenge, but we’ve dealt with worse.” Bill skates to the center of the rink.
“We have?” Des asks.
Bill thinks for a moment. “Figure of speech.”
“Leave the guy alone.” Hank skates up to us from the goal. He’s wearing his old South Rock High jersey, which rides up on his pads as if he’s wearing a belly shirt. Unlike ‘90s-era Britney Spears, he doesn’t have the flat stomach to pull it off.
“What’s going on with your jersey?” Bill asks. He tugs it down. The jersey pops back up like a window shade.
“I shrunk it in the wash.”
“Are you sure it shrunk?” Des winks at him.
“It did! I used to be able to fit into it no problem,” Hank says.
“Was that before or after you were legally allowed to vote?”
“Excuse me for wanting to boost morale. Sorry I don’t wear bougie gear from wherever you get your shit. My jersey isn’t from Brooks Brothers.”
“I don’t think Brooks Brothers manufactures jerseys for the modern businessman, Hank,” Des says. He is truly a master of sarcasm.
“One-balled Dickheads ‘r Us then,” Hank shoots back.
Des bristles at the reference to his nuts but keeps his sardonic attitude. “You mean the toy store that’s been out of business for like a decade? A-plus on your timely insults. Let me know when I should expect your Myspace jokes.”
Hank has no retort, so he does what any goon would. He shoves Des. Des shoves him back. Hank might be larger surface area-wise, but Des is the stronger one, his arms like cannons.
“Guys! Break it up!” I push them off each other. “Save it for the other team.”
“Once we get back on the ice practicing together, all this noise will fade away.” Bill always knew how to regain control and get us back into the zone. “I’m getting Comebacks jerseys made that will fit everyone. We’ve dealt with loud, obnoxious fans at games. A few kids running around is an upgrade from that. And as for evening practices, it’s the only time that was available. It is what it is.”
His eyes flick to me for a second, and I know what he’s thinking: I fucked this up because I couldn’t get one on Jack.
Well, apparently Jack has been playing me this whole fucking time, a long con of revenge for his dear old dad. I’m wise to his game, though, and I won’t be a sucker again.
“I won’t let it happen again,” I say to the team. I picture wiping the ice with Jack, wiping that cocky grin off his face.
“Good,” says Bill. “Let’s get practicing.”
We begin skating around and stickhandling to warm up. Bill has us come to center ice for drills. He splits us into two teams and introduces a puck onto the ice. Derek and I have to keep it away from Tanner and Des while staying in the neutral zone. Bill practices taking shots on Hank at goal to keep him warm.
Tanner stifles a yawn into his arm as he effortlessly passes to Des. We used to joke that those two shared a brain because they rarely had to signal to each other for passes.
“Don’t yawn. That’ll make me yawn,” Derek says, powerless to stop his yawn.
“Keep it up,” Bill yells back to us. “Our first game this weekend is against the Rangers. Don’t be too worried. They’re park rangers. I think we got this.”
“Beating the Rangers will be good practice when we eventually play the Blades,” I say, finally intercepting a pass between my two foes. My hand grips my stick tighter.
“You’re so focused on the Blades,” Des says.
“They have a ringer on their team. Of course I am.”
Des studies my face, as if looking for other evidence. I won’t give it to him.
“You keep mentioning their ringer,” Tanner says. “I think he’s getting in your head.”
Buddy, he’s already there, try as I might to get him out.
“Of course he’s in Griff’s head. The guy beat him one-on-one,” Derek says.
“Was this the same guy flirting with him at the bar?” Des asks.
“You don’t know the half of it. He’s Ted Gross’s son,” Hank says, yelling from goal while stopping one of Bill’s shots. Impressive. “We figured it out the other day. The guy is still a raging prick.”
I do a quick lap around the empty half of the rink to avoid my teammates’ stares.
“Ted had his son join the league to mess with Griff.” Hank shakes his head.
“That’s fucked up,” says Des.
“Des!” Tanner nudges his chin to the kids in the stands.
“Hank can say prick, but I can’t say the f-word?” Des rolls his eyes.
“Can you guys stop talking about me and Jack? Not like there is a ‘me and Jack.’ I don’t want anything to do with Ted Gross’s demon spawn.”
I do another lap to clear my head. When I return to center ice, I scoop the puck away from Des, charge down the ice, and nail a goal on Hank. No matter what happened in my one-on-one showdown with Jack the other day, I still got it.
“F’ the Blades. Long live the Comebacks!” I yell.
* * *
Practice is rigorous and thorough. Bill believes in pushing us hard in order to make us stronger. He compared it to snakes shedding their skin. This might’ve worked when we were teenagers, but now in our forties, I’m finding that my body doesn’t bounce back nearly as well as I’d like. That’s the problem with getting older. In my mind, I still feel eighteen. It’s the rest of my body that’s determined to age.
After getting showered and dressed, the guys and I roll out of the locker room, kids in toe, feeling like a million bucks. We strut down the corridor to the exit, chests big and puffed, imaginary crowds fawning over us. We completed a challenging practice, doing things most guys our age wouldn’t dream of doing. When Jack gets into his forties, I doubt he’ll still be playing hockey.
Why does my mind keep going back to him?
“He’s just one guy,” Bill says as we head for the exit. Can he read my mind? “Jack might be good, but he’s just one guy on a team.”
“He’s not that good,” I say.
“He SUCKS,” Tanner’s son Davy yells.
“Davy. Language,” Tanner shoots back.
“The rest of his teammates are good,” says Hank, walking behind us. “I caught some of their practice. They’ve got the moves.”
“Well, so do we,” Bill shoots back. “We can’t let the Blades get in our heads.” He turns to his daughter Rowan, and they share a nod of agreement. Then Bill turns back to me, his hand on the door. “Any of them.”
I give him a salute. Message received.
Bill pushes open the door. “Fuck me.”
“Bill,” Tanner hisses, nodding at his kids at his side.
But Tanner follows Bill’s eyeline. We all do, and we all have the same reaction.
“Fork me,” Tanner mutters.
His minivan is mummified in toilet paper. As is Hank’s two-seater. As is Des’s Lexus and Bill’s SUV. They are big white puffs in an otherwise empty parking lot.
The guys run to their cars to assess the damage.
“It’s two ply!” Hank and his son Brody rub toilet paper between their fingers.
“What a waste of perfectly good toilet paper, Dad,” says Brody.
“What the…” Bill says, his usually stoic face filled with shock and a bit of horror. But he’s not looking at his car.
He’s looking at mine.
When my eye lands on my truck, it’s as if a pilot light clicks on inside me, releasing a flame of anger.
My pickup truck isn’t merely mummified in dry bath tissue like my teammates’ cars. It’s encased in a thick layer of wet toilet paper stuck to every inch. The wet, half-dried toilet paper has the bumpy look of a vintage popcorn ceiling. It covers my windshield, doors, truck bed, even the side mirrors.
I run my hand across the driver’s side window, the mushy sloop sliding off the car and plopping to the ground. I’d had to wade through dirty diapers and sick kids, and yet the feel of the wet paper on my hand ranks as one of the grossest things I’ve experienced in my adult life.
“Who the hell did this to my beautiful Lexi?” Des says, ready to go full Liam Neeson in Taken to protect his car.
“The ringer,” I mutter.
Bill comes over with an ice scraper. I don’t take it from him. Instead, I start laughing. A low, maniacal, crazy person chuckle ripples from deep inside my chest out of my mouth, causing my teammates to take a half-step back.
“Gentlemen,” I say. “Looks like the Blades want a prank war.”