Page 82 of Game Misconduct

He was still sweating, twitchy and nervous, but he just sat there and didn’t go to get a drink or anything. Mike had felt much more self-conscious about what and why he was drinking since Danny, and even though it kinda sucked to like, have to deal with emotions all of the time, he was starting to get used to being uncomfortable. It was pretty fucking weird, but that was life now.

The Hornets lost, 4–2, and Mike pulled the phone out of the cushions again.

Of course Danny is welcome in our home,she had written.Do you have ideas about dates yet?

It almost felt like someone else’s fingers typing,well idk how the playoffs are gonna go so. i’ll keep you posted. thanks, mom.

He had thought, once when he was younger and angrier, or maybe just younger and sadder, that doing this would be momentous, some big thing. Instead, he got up, went to make himself dinner, and the minutes just kept ticking on by like nothing had happened. He didn’t tell Danny he’d asked, because Danny had enough on his shoulders at the moment, but when he checked his phone before he went to bed, Mom had written,I love you, Michael.

Mike didn’t know how to answer that or what to do with it. Instead, he starred and archived the email, and got into bed to stare at the ceiling for a long time before he could sleep.

Chapter Eight

April

The Hornets finished first in the division and were going to play Carolina in the first round. The Cons had finished second and were set to play the Monument. It wouldn’t be until after those games that Danny would know if he would face Mike in the playoffs. Ultimately it didn’t matter, whether he would or he wouldn’t. He’d have to get through them all the same.

Danny took stock of all of the places his body was likely to give out during the series at some point. The knee was bad and throbbed at night. His hip ached. The shoulder he’d dislocated more often than the other one was going to be an issue. And the low-level headache he always had was still there, unless he was keeping current on the Percs.

“I’m a mess, Buddy,” he told the cat.

Buddy had gotten over his initial rage whenever Danny came near him, and had turned into kind of a lap cat. Or a chest cat, more accurately, because that was his favorite perch. He was lying there now, purring his scratchy, rusty purr, and opened one eye when Danny spoke. Like he knew what Danny was saying but didn’t have any advice for him.

“It’s okay. I don’t know either.”

Buddy still didn’t have answers for him.

The actual games started before he felt ready. They had home ice advantage in Pittsburgh, but that didn’t make much of a difference to Danny. The crowds were there for Lévesque and Artyomov, never for him. In the locker room before they were due to head out, Danny sat in silence; his eyes closed. This would be his second-to-last playoffs if he made it through next year, and the thought was a strange one. Every year he did this, chasing a trophy he’d never won, something ultimately meaningless if he did win. He’d destroyed his body for it. Sometimes it even seemed worth it.

“You all right, old man?” Gears asked.

“Just getting my head together.”

Gears looked at him again, one of those long, searching looks. “You good?”

“Gears, I’ve been playing in the league for fifteen years. I’ve seen a few playoffs.”

“Yeah, but...you know.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, bud. I’m good.”

“We’re cool, though?”

“Always were.”

Gears held out his hand to fist-bump, and Danny humored him. Gears’ awkward, hesitant smile broke his heart a little. “Okay, cool. ’Cause I feel like we got it in the bag this year, dude.”

“You and Landry... Be careful, that kind of optimism’s catching.”

His chest clenched a little when he skated out onto the ice for the introductions and the national anthem; the smoke and lights and music still choked him up a little, even now, even after long years of doing this. This was that kind of ineffable magic that made the whole thing worth it. But then they were playing, and he only had time to think about that.

There was a reason the Oaks had made it into the playoffs as wildcards. They’d shuffled their lineup around during the season, brought in a new coach to try to end their playoff drought, and it had mostly worked. They still weren’t the kind of threat that the Cons would be. Danny was mostly on the ice with the fourth-line forwards and for penalty kill, where he was able to use his size and tendency to stay in the defensive zone to the team’s advantage.

It really wasn’t any kind of contest. The Oaks might have improved, but the Hornets ran over them like a steamroller, a 5–0 shutout the first game. Danny had gotten three points from primary and secondary assists, so that was something. He’d fought once, but he hadn’t been hurt too badly. The Oaks forward who’d tried it wasn’t big enough to really get a punch in once Danny got him at arm’s length and he hadn’t had anywhere near Mike’s tenacity.

Afterward, he stood in the cryobath for longer than he should have and limped his way out of the stadium to his car. It was going to be a three-Perc night if he was going to play the next few games.

“Killing it, dude,” Mike said, on the video call later.

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