Page 15 of Game Misconduct

“I know,” he wheezed, the breath knocked out of him. She gave him a minute to recover, and then he was back in the game, throwing a flurry of jabs up and down, trying by sheer volume to get past her guard. “If there was anything to tell you, I would.” He was a liar and a shitty friend, but there were some things he just couldn’t let go. There were some things that were practically muscle memory at this point, no matter how much they hurt.

She punched him in the face and his nose started bleeding.

Mike smiled. It felt like the right thing.

When they showed up to practice later that morning, Mike’s nose had stopped bleeding, but they both sported cuts and scrapes and fresh bruises. Coach took one look at them and inhaled sharply. He wasn’t the kind of guy to scream, but his quiet disapproval felt almost as bad. “Morin, Sato, what thefuckare you doing?”

“I am training,” Bee said promptly, before Mike could answer.

“Training.”

“We box together.”

“Neither of you are taking any hits to the head,” Coach said with the kind of level flatness that was the equivalent of spittle flying from the mouth of another kind of man. “Especially you, Morin. If you want to box, fine, but no more fucking hits to the head.”

“Yes, Coach,” they chorused, like guilty schoolkids.

Mike probably pushed himself too hard during practice, particularly after an hour of letting Bee knock him around in the ring, but it was a good kind of sore. They were playing the Carolina Oaks later that night, and he and Bee went back to the apartment to sleep before the game. In his room, he stripped down to his boxers, ready to try to close his eyes.

Instead, he checked his phone.

He hadn’t really known what to think when Garcia had added him on Snapchat. Garcia never actually messaged him first, but what Mike had gotten was a continuous thread of chirps and nastier insults. And some shit he’d angrily jerked off about, more than once, which was a whole ’nother problem. The Hornets had lost to Arizona, which had given him a shitload of things to needle Garcia about. The conversation wasn’t always constant; he’d have somewhere to be, or Garcia would, but they’d pick it right back up again later on.

He didn’t want to think too much about that. He didn’t want to think too much about the fact that he looked forward to seeing whether Garcia had written something, looked forward to it even more when he was around to respond in real time. It was just easier to shit on him when he was actually there, that was all. He liked knowing if he was getting under Garcia’s skin.

The latest response was just a snap of Garcia’s face staring straight at the camera. His expression was so deadpan and completely unamused that Mike laughed before he caught himself doing it. He scowled at his phone.

you look about as energetic as you did on the ice, bro. no wonder fuckin arizona handed it to you guys

Don’t you have a game you should be preparing for?

i’d rather give you shit than sleep right now, i guess

With that attitude...

what???

I’m just saying, this conversation could go the other way and I’m not gonna let you forget it if it does.

Mike glared at his phone again. He really, really didn’t like when Garcia was right. But he also didn’t want the conversation to end. For whatever reason.

whatfuckingever, tbh, like i give a fuck about your opinion.And then on a whim, tilted his head to the side to take a picture of the dark red, early-stage bruise Bee had left on his jaw. It was large and splotchy, and it ached. His teeth had rattled when she’d done it. He added the caption—not from you—and before he could think too much about that, he sent it.

There was a long pause, before Garcia said,So who’s punching you that’s not me?

nah

Who?

lmaoooo are you jealous?

You do have a very punchable face, so I guess shit happens

dude, you ARE jealous, this is hilarious

Garcia snapped him instead, and Mike realized with dizzy excitement he was playing a game with rules that changed by the minute and in a way he could never predict. Garcia in his bed. He must have been holding the phone in his left hand. Mike’s eyes were drawn down the shot. He had a glimpse of Garcia’s muscled chest, the trail of hair that led down to his boxer briefs and massive thighs. His right hand palmed his cock, and Mike could see the outline of it through the fabric, and he swore to god, his mouth fucking watered.

He stared at the picture until it vanished. Then he stared at his screen. It was like a fucking dog and a bell response; he could feel himself getting hard thinking about it. Thinking about Garcia.

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