16. Griffin
16
GRIFFIN
I t’s a good thing our friend owns Stone’s Throw Tavern, or else we’d probably get thrown out by this point. The Comebacks are still on a high from our squeaker of a victory at today’s game against the God Squad, a team made up of ministers and rabbis from the area.
“It was beautiful. A thing of beauty. It should be in a museum.” Bill hoists his beer in the air, and we cheer, glasses clinking against each other in a joyous mishmash.
He’s talking about the epic game-winning shot courtesy of Des and Tanner. They had a remarkable opening where they sped down the ice, passing the puck back and forth like a slingshot between their sticks, where Tanner took a shot. The puck sailed into the upper corner of the net. If the goalie had been a tenth of a second quicker, he could’ve blocked it.
Des and Tanner take in the acclaim. Tanner is more modest. Des, not so much. He motions for Bill to keep talking.
“So what you’re saying is that it was the Mona Lisa of passing,” Des says, not one to shy away from hyperbole.
“Something like that. I just watched that puck go back and forth. The God Squad couldn’t keep up. It was…it was just like old times,” Bill says, a twinkle in his eye. “You still have that old magic.”
“Nobody’s old here,” Des says, throwing back a martini.
Back in high school, Des and Tanner were dynamic twosome on the ice, their passing coordination getting past the heaviest defense. They were so in sync, it was as if they could read each other’s minds about where to go on the ice.
“It’s a good thing Des is so predictable. That way I always know where the puck will end up,” Tanner says, shooting him a playful sneer.
“And it’s a good thing that I’m always one step ahead of Chance.” Des clinks his drink against Tanner’s pint glass, matching sneer for sneer. “It keeps Dear Old Dad on his toes.”
“Thanks for making me such a great player, buddy,” Tanner says, his eyes staying on Des. He was never one for trash talking.
“Likewise,” Des shoots him a wink. Tanner turns back to his drink, but I clock Des’s eyes staying on him for an extra second. After decades of friendship and teamwork, they have a strong bond that’s heartening to see.
“Aww. Kiss!” Hank says before breaking into a laugh. “Kidding!”
Mitch shuffles up to us, replenishing our peanut bowl. “Congrats on the win.”
“How’s the back?” Bill asks.
“It’s getting there. Definitely by next season.”
“Mitch, what are you doing?” Charlie, his much-younger husband, races up to him, panicked. “The doctor said you shouldn’t be carrying anything heavy.”
“It’s a peanut dish,” Mitch says.
“Those peanuts are unshelled. They’re much denser in weight.” Charlie takes the dish from him and massages his back. “Physical therapy is going great. Mitch is making progress. We’re taking walks. He’s going to be back on his feet in no time, so long as he follows the doctor’s orders. No lifting heavy objects.” Charlie points his accusatory eyebrows his husband’s way.
“I didn’t know I married a drill sergeant.”
“You love it.” Charlie gets on his tiptoes to give his husband a kiss.
Mitch and Charlie have a sizable age gap between them. Charlie used to date Mitch’s daughter in college. But they work. They are totally in love. When I see them, I can’t help but think of Jack. And kissing him.
Or not kissing him.
He is testing all of my willpower. Finding out that he’s Ted Gross’s son has made my attraction to him even more fraught.
“Okay, I have to go.” Tanner stands up and finishes his drink. “My mom needs to get home in time to watch 60 Minutes .”
Tanner better thank his lucky stars that his mom is still alive and able to babysit his kids. Carmen and I never had that opportunity, and babysitters in Sourwood aren’t cheap.
Eventually, the guys start to go home. I should join them. While I loved celebrating the victory with my team, it felt unearned. I barely contributed. I still haven’t gotten my groove back.
I say my goodbyes. Bill walks me to the door.
“Good game,” he says.
“Bill, don’t bullshit me. I was the weak link on the ice today.”
He seesaws his head, being careful with his following words. “You’re still finding your mojo.”
“Hopefully it shows up soon.”
“It will.” Bill gives me a no-nonsense stare. “It will. You have all the tools. You just gotta remember to use them.”
The advice is a bit confusing, but so is playing with lost mojo. Too bad I can’t travel back to the 1960s to get it back from Dr. Evil.
I stroll through downtown Sourwood, breathing in the night air. It’s nice to be outside in the quiet after being crammed into a loud bar. Moonlight makes everything prettier.
I always park in the same spot in the alley between the bookstore and kids’ shoe store. It’s quiet, close, and nobody thinks to park here.
Yet when I turn the corner into the alley, I find that I’m not alone. A man stands next to my truck, his back to me.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Shit,” he whispers, but he doesn’t move. Between his legs, I see a line of piss trickle down my driver’s side car door.
“What the hell are you doing? There’s a public restroom down the street,” I tell the man, even though we both know it’s too late for that.
You don’t take a whiz on someone’s car. Save that shit for the sides of buildings.
He says nothing, probably too embarrassed, his frame shrouded in moonlight.
“Stop!” I yell.
He ignores me. The trickle speaks for itself.
I get closer, ready to hurl him onto the main sidewalk. A streak of light from the nearby lamppost provides some illumination. His features come into focus as I approach.
Blond hair, broad shoulders, bubbly ass.
“Jack?” I ask, horrified. “What the fuck are you doing?”