14. Griffin
14
GRIFFIN
W orking on airplanes is a much more peaceful existence than working on cars. The high ceilings and open air of the hangar makes things quieter. I can listen to music and zone out. I don’t have to talk to people, sit in meetings with people, basically do anything that involves interfacing with another human being.
It’s a good life.
That is, until someone decides to disturb my peace.
“What the hell was that?”
I look up from the landing gear that I’m tightening up to find Jack glaring down at me. Jack in a suit that is one size too small for his thick arms and legs.
I give the gear one final twist of the bolt before standing up. The owner of this Cessna 150 claimed he wanted to keep flying his plane until the wheels came off, and he pretty much got his wish.
“Excuse me?” I ask. Jack’s blue eyes are so filled with fire that they’re nearly aqua.
“That little show you were putting on outside.”
“I don’t follow…” Oh shit. Did I fuck up his plane? I remember him saying he owned one. Rich people loved nothing more than toying with people who worked for them, like we were mice in a cat’s mouth. “Was that your plane on the tarmac? The wingtip was already damaged, probably from flying through one too many storms. I noted in my report that you need to order a new part.”
“What? No. I…you…out there…with your jumpsuit…and you whipping your shirt off…” Jack paces in the space between the Cessna and my tools. “You were messing with me.”
“Now I really don’t follow.” Was this what it looked like for someone to be having a panic attack?
“I prepared so hard for this interview. I did a mock interview with my friends for Chrissakes. It’s the only one I’ve gotten and now it’s fucked because of your hot body.”
I’m not sure whether to feel offended, guilty, or turned on by the compliment. Jack seems equally confused, rubbing at his head and mussing up his neatly combed hair. Damn him for looking even cuter with shaggy hair.
“I’m sorry?” I’ve never had to apologize for being good looking, but I suppose there’s a first for everything. Wait, why the hell am I apologizing to him for anything? “Actually, I’m not sorry. If you have a problem with the way your plane was serviced, you can speak to my manager. Otherwise, get the hell out of my hangar.”
“Dammit.” He plunks down on my stool and lets out a grandiose exhale. He wipes at his eyes, a nuclear mushroom cloud of stress wafting off him.
Fuck. What is it about Jack that makes it impossible to tell him to truly fuck off. I let out a groan and pull up another stool. “We will get your plane fixed. Don’t worry. I can see if I have a replacement part here.”
“I don’t have a plane! I don’t even have a job!” He yells, his voice echoing through the hangar. Valentina, the other mechanic on duty, glances up from the helicopter propeller she’s working on. I give her the signal that everything’s okay.
It’s then that I notice Jack’s suit isn’t that nice. His shoes are scuffed and don’t have a designer label. And peeking out his briefcase is a resume with his name plastered on top. Rich people don’t use resumes. They use country clubs and connections.
“You don’t have a private plane?” I ask, the truth slowly revealing itself. “And you don’t own that building you took me to when we met?”
Jack’s eyes are like a mood ring changing hues before he has a chance to make up an excuse. The fiery aqua of before deepens to a dark blue-green ocean of regret, informing me that I’m correct.
“I’m pretty much broke,” he utters, his voice barely above a whisper. “My friend owns that building. He lets me rent one of his apartments for super cheap. Otherwise I’d be living in my car.”
I try to wrap my head around this information, but it’s a shock to the system. “But you played in the NHL. I looked you up. You were a professional athlete.”
“We’re not all multi-millionaires lounging in swimming pools filled with Lamborghinis. I was traded to four teams in four years. I wasn’t exactly a star player, and I definitely wasn’t paid like one.” He loosens his tie, a sense of relief coming over him as he unspools the truth. “I made decent money, but when you give a twenty-year-old all that cash, he’s bound to make a lot of stupid decisions with it.”
Jack laughs to himself, probably the only way to get over being rich and having it all go away.
“I owned a Lambo. They’re a pain in the ass to keep up. They get horrible mileage, and they require the more expensive premium gas.” Jack yanks his tie off and shoves it in his briefcase.
“Smart that you got rid of it,” I say.
“It got repo’d.”
“Shit.” My heart sinks thinking about everything Jack went through by the time he was twenty-four. He gained and lost a fortune. Gained and lost a career. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t do that. I don’t want your pity. I don’t deserve it. I did this to myself. I thought the good times were going to last forever, and I made some shitty decisions. Trusted the wrong people.” He shakes his head to himself, his eyes darkening.
“Was anything you said on the night we met the truth?” I ask, half-joking.
“Yeah. My dad is an asshole who used me to live out his failed dreams. He thought I would be his ticket out of his shitty life. He did a one-eighty when it was clear I was never going to be the star player. It’s quite breathtaking how quickly people close to you can turn.” Jack’s bottom lip quivers, and for a moment, I wonder if a tear will fall down his face. Instead, he stands up from his stool, gets right in my face, anger seething from him. “He didn’t put me up to anything with you. I’m not his fucking puppet, got that?”
I nod in understanding, and it gives me a sense of relief. I don’t have to hate myself as much for thinking Jack is attractive. It also makes me hate Ted Gross even more, if that was possible.
“Well, good luck with the job hunt,” I say. I squat down again to work on the wheel that’s loose under this Cessna. Jack walks around my workstation, opening drawers and admiring tools. A wrench falls out of his hand and clangs back into the drawer. He reminds me of a stray puppy that wants attention.
“Can you, uh, pass me that wrench actually?” Since he’s just standing around, he could be of use. Technically, it’s not allowed, but there are airplane owners who prefer to service their own aircraft. A quick smile flits on his face at the request, which makes the freckles on his nose squish together. Not that I should know a damn thing about his freckles.
I tighten the screw for the front wheel, but it’s still loose. I take out the screw and notice the sides have been worn down.
“Hey, can you see if there’s a screw in there that matches this one?” I hand it to Jack.
“Sure.” He rifles through the drawers in the toolchest. He takes out a screw, compares it to the broken one, studies the grooves, then throws it back because it’s not the right one. He does this two more times before handing over a match. The kid wants to work, I’ll give him that.
“Thanks.” I squat back down. The screw fits in perfectly.
“So like, what’s the deal with you and my dad? What happened?” Jack sits on the floor, no cares about messing up his suit. He takes off the jacket, which was squeezing his arms. His shirt allows me to see the curve of his chest better.
“What does your dad say happened?”
“He was going for a puck, and you skated at him full speed and just barreled into him like a bus.”
“He barreled into me! I was the one going for that puck, and he came at me stick first.” A flash of white hot anger burns in me. I could bend this wrench in half I was so pissed. Ted Gross is crying victim? He still has two functioning eyes.
Jack throws his hands up in defense. “Just repeating what he said many times over the years.” He sidles up to the plane, smoothing his hand over the fuselage. “Maybe you guys are both right?”
Everything happened in less than two seconds. Unlike with the JFK assassination, there’s no footage to parse and obsess over. But I remember what happened. I remember the last time I saw anything out of my left eye, the image of Ted Gross coming at me like a cannon ball.
“He messed up his shoulder really bad. He was never able to play the same way again. Still hurts him to this day,” Jack says.
“You’re defending him?”
“Trust me, I’m not. The last thing I want to do is stick up for him.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, its warmth calming me down.
“He’s not the only one with scars.” I don’t have to point to my eye patch. Jack’s stare gets there on his own. “He never visited me in the hospital. He never apologized. Even if it was a freak accident, fucking apologize.”
“What can I say? My dad’s an asshole. He was born angry, he’s angry every day, and he’ll die an angry old man.”
“Is that how you want to live?” I hand him the wrench. He puts it away in the correct drawer.
Jack shakes his head no.
“Can you pass me the mirror in the third drawer down?” Jack hands it over. I use it to check around the wheels in hard to reach angles. I want to make sure there are no other loose screws or wires around the landing gear.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you, Jack. That sucks. But at least you got to play. You made it to the NHL. Things might not have gone how you wanted them to, but you still accomplished something great.”
Jack nods politely, the way we do with unearned compliments. He takes back the mirror, places it back in the toolchest. “So did you.”
I snort a laugh, thinking this is him being sarcastic again.
“I never made it pro. Your dad made sure of that.”
“Stop being so down on yourself, Griffin.” Jack throws a clean rag in my face. “I’ll admit the sad, wounded puppy thing is cute, but it’s not accurate.”
“I’m not the one who lied about my life, Jack,” I shoot back.
“But you’re not being totally honest with yourself, either.” Jack gets right in my face. I can practically feel his stubble on my cheek. “Yeah, you didn’t go pro, but you have a pretty good life. You have a great job, good friends, a roof over your head, two daughters who sound adorable and love you no matter what your hockey stats are. You’re doing pretty good for yourself. And trust me, there are lots of guys playing in the NHL who have everything you dream of and are miserable because they don’t have what you have today.”
Jack’s eyes vibrate with an intensity that catch me off guard. His words cut through walls that had been there so long, slicing through the story I’d told myself for decades.
“I should count my blessings more,” I admit. “So should you.”
“Deal.” He holds out his hand for a shake. I squeeze extra hard, but he doesn’t wince.
Heat builds between us, spinning around like electricity in a lightning storm.
With a sincerity and urgency I didn’t know I had in me, I cup his cheeks in my hands. He doesn’t mind the bits of grease streaked on his skin. “You’re going to be okay, Jack. I promise you that.”
Jack’s eyes don’t move from me. I stare into him, seeing the fear hiding behind the cockiness. It only makes me want to hold him closer. The moment, whatever the fuck this moment is, swirls around us. I feel my body inch closer, a deep desire to taste his lips overcoming me. Jack shuffles toward me, heat radiating between our bodies.
And then, in a quick jolt, I see Ted Gross’s angry face from Ferguson’s. I see his hockey stick coming at me. I freeze up, and in those critical seconds, Jack clenches under my hands. He steps back, whatever truths he revealed behind his eyes gone.
“I really need to learn my lesson with you.” Jack grabs his jacket and storms out before I have a chance to explain. Well, first I’d have to come up with a fucking explanation.
I glare at the Cessna. The landing gear is gleaming and fixed. At least one thing in this fucking hangar knows how to take off.