13. Jack
13
JACK
A fter sending over fifty resumes to crickets, I finally get a bite to be the office manager for the private airport outside of town. It’s located down a windy, wooded road that leads to a big, open airfield. The contrast is startling.
Fuentes pulls into the parking lot. From the passenger seat, I watch single engine planes and small private jets line up to take off. Students at the flight attendant school attached to the airport flutter about outside in their uniforms, the men’s pants especially fitted to their buttocks. I could get used to both of those views.
“You’re going to do great,” Fuentes says, giving me a supportive punch on the thigh. “Don’t speak too fast. Don’t trail off. Give them some of that big-swinging-dick charm of yours.”
I don’t know much about the job I’m interviewing for. I think I have to stock office supplies and the company fridge. They didn’t require a college degree, though, and they provide full benefits. Take the interview , Fuentes and Miller told me in no uncertain terms.
I’ll learn as I go. Practice makes perfect, in hockey and in life.
“Are you okay with taking an Uber home?” he asks. “I have to let in the HVAC guy to one of my buildings.”
“Yeah.” I shake out my hands. I’ve played hockey in front of tens of thousands of fans, broadcast live on TV. I didn’t get nervous like I am now. I feel like an impostor in this suit, in this life.
Fuentes gives me a supportive smile and makes a fist in solidarity.
“Thank you for driving me. For being my fucking chauffeur. And for the apartment. I hit the friend jackpot with you.”
Ever since we played hockey as kids, there was never any competition between us, no double-crossing to be coach’s favorite. As my hockey career was taking off and getting more attention from scouts, Fuentes didn’t act jealous. He was excited for me. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in life, done a lot of dumb shit. Somehow, I lucked out with Fuentes.
“I was a shit student in high school. Even my teachers didn’t think I’d amount to anything. You remember what you always said to me?” Fuentes asks.
A nostalgic smile hits my lips. “You’re destined for great things.”
Fuentes nods. “You believed in me. Just hearing that made me think my crazy ideas could work. When someone keeps telling you that you’re destined for success over and over, it starts to sink in.
“And when you first got drafted, you remember what you did? You rented a limo and threw me an epic eighteenth birthday party. We cruised around New York City with fake IDs like we were the kings of Manhattan. None of us had to take out our wallets once.”
We got into this bar that we heard professional athletes frequented and did shots with a bunch of basketball players. We strolled down the High Line at dawn eating hot dogs, beaming with that kind of invincibility and optimism that comes with being on the cusp of adulthood.
“You’re a real one, Jack. And real ones look out for each other.” Fuentes gives me a fist bump. “I know you’re having a hard time, but you’re destined for great things.”
“Like being the office manager for a private airport?”
“Hey, everybody’s gotta start somewhere.”
I hold his words close to my heart, forcing them to seep in. They are a shield against the cynicism and depression that has clouded me ever since I left the NHL.
“You got this.”
I get out of the car into the cold, refreshing air. I check myself out in the reflection of a puddle. I smooth out my ill-fitting suit. All hockey guys have trouble wearing professional clothing. They’re not built for muscles. It looks like I’m encased in a sardine jar, but it’ll do. Aside from that, hair is good. Scruff is shaved. Tie isn’t crooked.
And yet…I’m fucked.
Because in the reflection, I catch sight of a familiar pickup truck behind me. It was only a week ago that I watched that pickup drive away with my and my team’s clothing, a certain surly gentleman flashing me a victorious grin. A grin I should’ve been mad at, but have kept thinking about. Watching a serious person smile is like unlocking a new level in a video game.
Crap, Griffin works here. I vaguely remember him mentioning he was a mechanic for a private airport when we met. I should’ve listened harder instead of sneaking glances at his bulge.
Knowing that I’m in the same vicinity as him makes me a new kind of nervous. My stomach regularly does a somersault when I think of him, which is very rude of my stomach considering the guy has no interest in me.
If I can handle getting knocked around on the ice and getting traded every year, then I can handle a regular corporate job. The hardest part will be faking enthusiasm for sitting at a desk. I don’t know if office life is right for me. But working at Ferguson’s wasn’t right for me either. Maybe I need to suck it up rather than trying to find where I belong. I wish that the NHL would’ve given us some training on job stuff in between all the practice. They likely knew that most of us would need a regular job when our career was done.
I walk into the expansive hangar where people in gray jumpsuits work on fixing airplanes. There are small two-engine planes and a large, private jet in the back.
I’ve flown on a private jet before. The cool factor wears off quickly. The food is never as good as you want it to be.
As I admire the jet, I spot Griffin working on the bottom of it from a raised platform, deep into his work, sleeves pushed up.
I find myself captivated by his methodical working. The way his brow creases as he tightens a widget. The smear of grease across his thick forearm. The smile he gives his fellow mechanic when she cracks a joke. He’s a man in his element, good at his job.
And damn does he look good in his jumpsuit. Fuentes and Miller told me to bring a briefcase so that I’d seem like a more serious person. I now use that briefcase to cover the very serious tenting in my pants.
Griffin turns to get something from his toolbox, giving me a glimpse of his big, round ass jutting out perfectly against the dull gray of the jumpsuit.
Could I stock that cake in the company fridge?
He turns back to the jet, and I dart out of view before he can see me.
* * *
I meet with a Black woman named Darlene who’s the executive assistant to the airport general manager. As she describes her role at the airport, it sounds like she’s the one running this place. We walk past a row of offices until we reach hers. It’s cramped, but there’re homey touches like plants and pictures of her kids. To our left is the door that leads to her boss’s office. Outside her window, a gleaming private jet sits on the tarmac. They look small on the runway and in the sky, but up close, they’re huge. It reminds me of people in apartments when massive parade floats pass by their windows.
“That’s quite a view!” I say.
“Oh, yeah. There’s a musician that lives in the area, and that’s her private plane. I can’t say whose it is, but if you start working here, you’ll probably see her around.” The fan side of Darlene makes a quick cameo before she goes back to her business self.
We have some pleasant chitchat about hockey life. Her husband was a fan of one of my prior teams, which led to my resume sticking out in her pile. I breathe a small sigh of relief that she’s already on my side.
“So Jack, tell me what attracted you to the role?” she asks. There comes that point in an interview when the pleasant chitchat fades away, and the interviewer inevitably becomes an adversary, judging whether to hire you or not.
In hockey, I’m used to thinking on my feet, pivoting when a teammate is blocked or a shot goes wide. Interviews are a new beast for me.
“Why am I attracted to the role? That’s a great question,” I say, obviously stalling. The first answer that pops into my head is the truth: because you called me in for an interview and because I need a job. I will do pretty much whatever you tell me to do so long as you give me a paycheck. Too bad honesty is the worst policy in job interviews.
I search my brain for an intelligent sentence, and the best I come up with is, “Well, I’ve always liked airplanes.”
Darlene nods, waiting for more.
“You know, they’re cool. Because they’re so heavy, but they can fly through the air.” I can hear how dumb I sound, and yet I can’t stop. It’s the same thing that happens when I feel momentum sending me into an opposing player. “And so I’d love to work around airplanes.”
And maybe a certain mechanic whose ass looks tasty in his uniform.
She waits a few seconds, as if expecting me to say something better and then realizing that that won’t be happening. She gives a polite smile.
“It’s pretty fun working here. Airplanes are truly a feat of engineering.”
“And it looks like they’re serviced well.” I clear my throat, trying to clear the image of Griffin. “I mean, your staff…they do a good job. I haven’t heard of any planes crashing from here, so that’s good!”
Bringing up plane crashes? I’m on a roll.
Darlene gives a cringey laugh, one that politely screams “get him out of here.” I need to save this interview. The clock is ticking down, no time-outs.
“But my point is that aviation is an exciting field, and I really like helping people. I love working with my fellow players and helping them get better. Making an improvement in someone’s confidence, in their life, is great. And I think that’s transferable to making sure our coworkers are happy and comfortable.”
Darlene nods along, a grin of appreciation lighting up her face. I breathe out a relieved sigh.
“I believe that a happy employee is a more productive employee,” she says. I wish I’d thought of that line. She’s good! “As office manager, you will find ways to delight coworkers, whether by making sure they have what they need in the office or planning fun in-office events like the holiday party.”
“I love parties!” I refrain from telling her the last party I planned involved a keg.
“Can you talk more about how you work with others? And how you fostered hospitality in your role at Ferguson’s?”
“Great question.” I would watch one of the star players on an old team say that in press conferences. He said it allowed him to pause and think of a good response. I’m racking my brain for an answer when behind Darlene, through the window, a familiar big ass in a grey jumpsuit slowly comes into view.
Griffin raises himself up on a scissor lift to work on the private plane. His back (and ass) is to us as he works on fixing something on the wing. His back looks impossibly broad against the tight fitting jumpsuit. Pornographic fantasies swirl in my head.
“Um, well, serving customers is all about being hospitable, so I have experience there.”
It’s hard to stay engaged when Griffin and his delicious, strong body is right there. Did he plan this? Is he messing with me in revenge for the tape trick? Did he put on a jumpsuit that was one size too small, knowing I’d be looking at his ass through the window?
“I always made sure to answer whatever questions customers had. People like when they get answers to their questions.”
He turns, so I can see his face. His brow crinkles along the creases of his forehead. He’s oddly sexy when he concentrates. I slump down slightly in my seat out of his view. Griffin bends over to rifle through his toolbox, his ass sticking in the air like the air traffic control tower of my dreams. Or maybe that’s his dick.
I copped a quick feel when I was on my knees during the rooftop debacle, and the man is packing heat.
“I just want our coworkers to have a happy ending.” I clear my throat. “With their holiday party.”
“Okay. Great. Making sure people are heard is an underutilized skill in the workplace,” Darlene says. “What would you say is your strongest attribute?”
Right now, my cock feels like my strongest attribute because it’s on the verge of getting so hard it could put a hole in Darlene’s desk. Griffin’s ass is still in the air. How many tools is he rifling through? And is he…wiggling it?
I notice he has on headphones when he stands up, the white buds stand out against his dark beard and hair. He gives his ass another shake to whatever he’s listening to. Griffin dancing like nobody’s looking? Too. Fucking. Cute.
“My strongest attribute is that I work hard.” Rock fucking hard. “I don’t give up, no matter how difficult a request.” I have the stamina to go all fucking night. “I think hard work is a very important asset, especially as I’m learning a new skill.” Please plunk your asset directly on my face.
Griffin takes out a massive wrench and begins loosening some widget in the wing. His arms flex their muscles, two thick pieces of rope attached to a brick wall of a body.
“Anything in particular about how you exemplify hard work?” Darlene asks, reminding me we’re still in an interview.
“I was learning some stick handling maneuvers from an old coach, and I went over it for hours on my own until I mastered it.” I smile at the memory, one of my proudest moments in the NHL. “And at Ferguson’s, I always volunteered to organize inventory in the back, which was one of the least favorite things for employees to do.” I did it to get away from Dad, but she doesn’t have to know that.
“Why did you leave Ferguson’s?”
I practiced this answer with my friends. “I’m looking for more of a challenge, a place where I can expand my skillset and grow my career.”
She seems to buy it. Meanwhile, in Griffin land, he’s working with tools and screws and nails and it’s making me hornier and hornier.
He wipes a smear of black grease onto his jumpsuit. He keeps wiping to get it off his hands. And then, I forget to breathe for a moment because he unbuttons his jumpsuit.
Each button unclasping over his broad chest sends another current of heat up my leg. His white undershirt hugs his chest and belly. I know bellies don’t have six-packs, but Griffin's might be the exception. It just looks strong and imposing and makes me feel bad for my flat stomach. I want to hug it as I bounce up and down on his cock.
“The office manager role can be a great stepping stone careerwise. It’s where I started my career. I never imagined I’d be an EA, but as office manager, you get a lay of the land across all departments.”
“That’s great! I’m really excited about this role,” I say, my eyes darting back outside.
Just as I regain my breath, I lose it all over again when Griffin pulls up his undershirt, using it to wipe his brow.
Holy mother of gay Jesus. I get a full, glorious, there-is-a-God view of his hairy torso, a torso I’m silently begging to rub my face all over. His pecs are rugged and cut, mostly muscle with a little heft of fat. He is all man. He has ensured that I could never be attracted to a man under thirty again.
I would not be opposed to him bending me over that airplane wing.
I shift my gaze down to under his belly where the band of his boxers is visible. Boxer waistbands are sexier than boxers themselves. They are the ultimate tease.
I realize that my dream job isn’t to be office manager; it’s to be Griffin’s full-time cocksucker.
And just as quickly, the fantasy ends. Griffin drops his shirt and buttons up his jumpsuit.
“Jack.” Darlene spins around in her chair to look out the window, but all she sees is a mechanic diligently working on aircraft.
“Sorry. Planes are just so cool!” I laugh it off as the lower half of my body cools off.
Her mood shifts to a cooler temperature, or maybe it had already shifted and it’s the first I’m noticing. She stands up and signals for me to join her. “Well, it was so great of you to come in, Jack. We’re seeing a few more candidates, but we’ll let you know when we make a decision.” Her hand is essentially guiding me out the door before I can protest.
She leads me to the lobby and gives me a quick wave before whooshing back to her office.