Page 39 of Cherry Picking
“Griffin is great at respecting boundaries. Not so great at setting them.”
Locke might be the only person who knows, and that’s mostly because Griff insisted that he was physically incapable of keeping those kinds of secrets from him. Honestly, I like the guy, so it didn’t feel as scary.
“Are you suggesting I break up with him?” The words alone sound absurd, like someone ripping into my ribcage with the jaws of life threatening to tear him out of me.
Locke scoffs and tugs on the band in his hair until it all cascades around his shoulders. “What I’m suggesting is you meet his needs the way he meets yours.”
My computer on the table in front of us dings with the start of the game. It takes both of our attention, though I imagine it’s as much pretend on Locke’s part as it is on mine.
We watch the entire first period with not a single goal being made on either side before Locke stands and stretches. “I’m going to hit the shower. Let me know if he breaks any bones.”
Griff has been on his relative best behavior since the surgery. He listens to Coach, runs his drills, and ends our preseason on a high note. I don’t know what lit a fire under his ass, but I’m damn glad it did.
This game seems to be following that pattern. Our team is struggling to score, but so is theirs, and it’s not for lack of trying. Griff is barely letting air through the net, let alone a puck.
Halfway through the second period, though, something starts to shift. There’s a player from the opposing team hanging away from the others. He’s spending an awful lot of time in our defensive zone, getting near the crease but not crossing into it.
That’s not where the cameras focus, so I don’t actually see much of what’s going on, but when the gloves come off, all attention is directed at our goaltender.
What was I saying about him being on his best behavior? It’s a nasty set of punches that gets a ref yanking him away and Coach yelling from the sides.
He shoves his helmet off, lunges for the guy again—and this is beyond a typical fight. They’re going to bench Griff and send out Roman.
Fuck.
That’s a match penalty, which means Griff is off the ice like a bullet, and the way he barks at Coach says he’s still got one in the chamber. The rest of the game is rough to watch. Not because we’re playing badly but because I know Griff has to be going out of his mind. As soon as the match ends, as soon as we get our first official loss of the season, I pull my phone out and stare.
A few minutes later, it rings.
I don’t need to look at it to know who it is.
“Don’t say it,” Griff’s rumbly grit barrels through the phone. “Coach already chewed me out.”
“You called me, hotshot.”
I can practically hear him roll his eyes.
“Because I need you to talk me off a ledge.”
“Wanna tell me what that was about?”
“Fuck no.”
Not that Griff needs much to be provoked into throwing down his gloves, but there’s usually a pretty good reason for it. Especially with Coach on his back the way he has been.
“Just wanted to hear my voice?”
“Fuck you. Maybe.”
Something squeaks, and then the sound of water on tile echoes down the line.
“Are you showering?”
There’s the rustle of clothes hitting the floor, then a puff of laughter hits my ear. “Might as well. Burn this anger off before the guys get here. Said they’d give me a few minutes.”
I’ve talked Griff down from some of his spells a couple times throughout the years, but never where I couldn’t physically put my hands on him. Couldn’t kiss him or work the tension out of his body with my fingers.
“You sure laid into that guy, huh?”
