Page 23 of Game Misconduct

How fucking dare Garcia tell him he wasn’t fucking playing to his potential? If Mike could play better, he would have killed himself to do it, literally, figuratively, anything, and the fact that Garcia just assumed he was, what? Being lazy? Coasting? Mike could have punched him in his smug goddamn face. If Mike was capable of being something other than third pair at best and 7D press box filler at worst, wouldn’t Coach have realized it and worked with him to make it happen?

He was in Boston, and they had a game tonight, so he couldn’t even go to the boxing gym and try to bait people into punching him, couldn’t even slam his fists into the heavy bag and imagine it was Garcia’s face. Nothing helped. He did push-ups in his hotel room until his arms hurt, he did sit-ups until he felt like he was going to puke, and then he did jumping jacks until he did throw up.

He was furious, so why did he also feel like he was going to cry? Mike couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Maybe not ever. But it felt fucking awful, like Garcia had somehow stripped off his skin and left him vulnerable to the cold air. Every aching piece of him. It was like Luke Skywalker getting the proton torpedoes into that one fucking thermal exhaust port. Somehow Garcia, whether he realized it or not, had found the one thing that just destroyed him.

Mike tried to channel the energy into the game. He killed it on PK, keeping the Beacons from evening up the score on three separate opportunities—blocking a shot, sending a guy straight into the boards, and picking the puck on a pretty slick takeaway—but he still felt itchy under his skin, kinda nauseous. In the third period he picked a fight with Gardiner, one of their wingers, who just happened to be about six and a half feet tall. It was a nasty fight, one of those brawls where you were just out there slugging away and no one wanted to give in and finally the refs had to put an end to it. By that time Mike was bleeding from the forehead and the mouth, but Gardiner looked a hell of a lot worse after Mike had gotten a hold of his jersey, yanked him off-balance, and slammed his fist into several key parts of Gardiner’s face before he could get it together again.

Mike ended the game in the penalty box, licking salty blood off his lip and wishing it was Garcia he’d been able to punch in the face. He could see Bee out on the ice, shooting him worried looks, but he ignored her. This wasn’t anything she could help him with. She couldn’t help him and Singer couldn’t help him. This was something he had to come to terms with himself.

The penalty box was where he belonged. The press box was where he belonged. Garcia waswrong. Mike wouldn’t have wasted the first six years of his professional career if he could have done any better. The feeling bubbled up in his chest again, like he was just going to go completely nuts, lose it right out there where everyone could see him. What exactly was going to come out of his mouth, he didn’t fucking know.

After the game he didn’t bother sticking around for the meal. He needed to get so fucking drunk he stopped thinking about this. What he really needed to do was fuck Garcia out of his system, but that was a bad idea in a hockey town like Boston, where even if he didn’t go to a gay bar or try to pick up on Grindr, someone would probably recognize him. He settled for the next best thing, which was going to a bar not too far from the hotel and buying himself shots until he was well on his way to wasted and then a good way past it.

“Rough night?” asked the bartender, a handsome woman with her hair shaved just as close as his. She had neck tattoos, too. She looked sympathetically at the gash on his lip, which burned every time alcohol touched it.

“Nah, I won a fight and a hockey game,” he slurred back at her. “It was actually a pretty good night. Really, I’m doing like...great. Really good.”

She looked at him. Skeptical. “You’redoing really good?”

“I’m doing fucking great,” Mike told her, slamming his fist on the counter. “I’m doing like...way better than that fucking asshole evenknows.”

“Ohhhh. Bad breakup, huh? That’s rough.”

“What? No, no, I’m not da—no, no. I’m not dating anyone to break up with. I’d have way better taste than that. Like...way better taste. I wouldn’t...”

Her mouth twitched, and Mike swore to god if she laughed at him, he was going to cry. Instead, she said, “Well, whatever’s going on, tomorrow’s going to be better, you know.”

“Yeah. It always is, right? And I’ll uhh, take another one of, one of those.”

“Hmm,” she said, and turned around. When she returned, instead of a drink, she gently pushed the check toward him. “We’re not allowed to serve visibly intoxicated patrons.”

“You’re a bar,” Mike said, affronted, “that’s your job.”

“Our job is togetyou intoxicated, but then we have to stop. And I’m going to cut you off.”

“Fuck.”

“I can get you a glass of water, though?” she asked brightly.

“No, uh, no. Thanks. Thank you.”

Mike left her a 150% tip and stumbled out of the door and into the street. It was supposed to be a chilly night and he didn’t really have a coat, but he didn’t feel the cold. He’d made a good choice going somewhere close by, because suddenly even the few blocks seemed kind of daunting and going to sleep like an extremely good idea. What did not seem like a good idea was taking out his phone and voice calling Garcia, but he did it anyway.

“You,” he said, when Garcia picked up, “are fuckingwrongabout me.”

There was a pause. “Have you been drinking?”

“No.Yes. A little. Did you see me play tonight because then you like, youknowthat’s what I’m good at doing.”

“I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to insult you. I meant it. I was being sincere. I think you could be—really good.”

“Well, I fuckingcan’t, buddy, so keep your, your advice to yourself and your stupid fucking thighs.”

“Hey, Mike.”

“What.”

“Do me a favor and stay on the line with me until you get back to the hotel, all right?”

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