Page 19 of Game Misconduct

He was driving faster than he should have been driving, he realized, when the brakes squealed a little pulling into his driveway. What Danny really wanted was to get fucked up and not think about it, but he couldn’t even do that because he had a game tonight.

Instead, he poured himself a single shot of whiskey. Beer before a game was a bad idea. He swallowed two Percs with it. That took the edge off enough that even if he was pacing around the house, he didn’t feel as manic about it as he had before, and nothing hurt. He never had the attention span for books or TV anymore, unless it was in the background and he was just staring at it. He ended up in the kitchen again, halfheartedly scrambling some eggs and chopped-up sausage while he scrolled through his phone.

Danny found himself looking Mike up on Instagram and browsing through his feed. He was pretty active, posting a few times a week. Some of his grid was stupidly arty shots of little-known parts of Philadelphia or whatever city he happened to be in, some of it was pictures of his teammates with mocking captions. There was a lot of Morin: Morin making faces, Morin smiling at the camera, Morin in boxing gloves, a sports bra, and shorts, Morin shaving Mike’s head for him while Mike took a photo of them in the mirror and grimaced with comical exaggeration. There were some selfies: Mike frowning, Mike sneering, Mike and his bloody nose at the boxing gym. He had posted updates every time he got a new tattoo, although as far as Danny could tell, the only space he had still available was the back of his left hand.

Well. And his dick.

Danny’s eggs were burnt and browned, but he dumped the whole mess out into a plate and ate them anyway. The house was so fucking quiet and empty and not for the first time he wondered why the hell he’d bothered buying an entire home when a studio apartment probably would have suited him just fine.

He looked down at the phone again and opened Snapchat.

Hey.

He put the phone down on the counter and went to wash the dishes. When he came back, Mike had written,hey, asshole. Danny caught himself smiling, which was dumb as hell, considering.

What’s up?

shoveling endless fucking chicken breasts into my gullet. gotta keep my weight up we can’t all be giants like you

Is that a compliment? Be still my heart.

it was an observation but if you’re that starved for compliments idk what to tell u bro. kinda pathetic.There was another pause, then Mike added,wyd?

Danny thought about what to say, but none of the options were good.I don’t know, he typed finally. It wasn’t good either, but it was true.

listen i know you’re old as balls but u really don’t know wyd?

I know what it means, I meant I don’t know what I’m doing

Mike was silent for a while.rn or like in general.

It felt like too much. Both what Danny’d said, and what he could see himself saying. So he turned his phone off, dry-swallowed another pill, and went upstairs to sleep before he had to get ready for the game.

Mike got knocked out of the usual warm-up elimination soccer round early and spent the rest of his pregame routine down the hall, throwing a spare ball against the wall and catching it as it bounced back toward him. He scowled at the ball and threw it again, harder. He still felt like beating the shit out of something or someone, which was the right kind of energy to have before a game, even if it was only against Florida.

There was a lot of shit going on in his head and he didn’t like it. There was always shit going on in his head, but sometimes it was louder than others. If he could punch the wall without breaking his hand he would. He thought about something he’d seen on a documentary about enforcers on Netflix, an interview with Dave Tremblay, a guy Mike had actually fought down in the minors before his retirement. Tremblay was telling the camera about how he’d wrap chains around his hands and punch a tree to get the calluses layered on his knuckles faster.

Maybe Mike should do that.

Maybe that would make him feel more in control of his stupid head.

Of his stupid life.

“Mike,” someone said behind him.

Startled, he missed the ball bouncing back. It thumped into his shoulder, dropped to the floor. Rolled away. Mike turned and looked Nate Singer, the captain of the Cons, in the eye. “Yeah?”

“Just wanted to check in with you, see how you’re doing.” Singer was a big guy, almost as big as Garcia. But where Garcia was almost 240 pounds of asshole, Singer was basically just a tall as fuck golden retriever. He even had the sandy blond hair and dumb, friendly smile. He turned it on Mike now, and even though Mike hated people except Bee being fuckingniceto him, he had to fight the reflex to smile back. Singer just had that effect on people.

“Uh...why?”

“Checking in on all my guys this season,” Singer said. It wasn’t convincing. Like sure, Singer might’ve only been a year or so older than him. But there was a reason all the rookies and young guns called him Dad. Mike couldfeelthe fatherly concern. Singer was worried about him. Jesus Christ, had everyone circulated a memo or something?

“I didn’t do anything,” Mike said. “I stopped letting Bee punch me in the face.”

Singer winced. “I know you did. But—Mike, I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re feeling okay, make sure you’re going into the season in the right mindset.”

Mike looked at him, like if he looked at him long enough, bland enough, it would satisfy him.

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