Page 28 of Game Misconduct

He could feel Singer’s intent gaze on his back as he walked away and poured himself a Jack and Coke that was mostly Jack, but he was nowhere near drunk enough to even begin trying to explain to the captain what Garcia had said. How would he even explain it?Oh, yeah, I’ve been talking to some guy on the Hornets about my game and he’s really trying to get me to play up to my potential.

Singer would probably laugh him out of the fucking house.

Speaking of Garcia, the Hornets were playing in Vegas. The game had started at ten p.m. Mike’s time, so he was keeping an eye on the score. Not that he wanted them to win. The Cons and the Hornets were jockeying for the top two spots in the Metropolitan division and obviously he wanted them to lose. But if he wanted to keep an eye on what Danny was doing that was his own business.

They were nearing the end of the first period and the Aces were up one. He kind of wished he could just watch the game, see whether Danny showed any of the fucking initiative and talent he’d apparently seen in Mike. Instead, he obsessively refreshed Twitter to see whether anyone had uploaded relevant clips. There was one of Danny rolling one of the Vegas forwards against the boards, which was a really good look on him. He realized what he was doing immediately after thinking it, scowled, and put the phone away.

The rest of the party went by in a blur of faces around him, beer pong with Netty, who was nearly unbeatable, against Reed and Singer, trying to avoid being pulled in to dance with anyone on the team. No one on the Cons could dance—Bee and Sally excluded—and neither could he. His only experience was youthful flailing in Portland mosh pits and he didn’t think anyone here would appreciate that. The charms of accidentally being kicked in the face by someone’s combat boot as they crowd-surfed by would definitely be lost on them. Reed’s taste in music was terrible and Mike had to beg Netty to take over the playlist so he didn’t have to listen to country anymore. Even Russian EDM was preferable. Drinks were pressed into his hand, and he drank them.

The Hornets won their game. No one tried to fight Danny, so Mike messaged him,guess your ugly face finally scared’em away, not really expecting a response, since they were probably in postgame media scrum and the showers and cooldown by now.

By the time he checked his phone again it was maybe a half hour later, he had wriggled his way out from under Netty’s arm, leaving a streak of gray behind him, and Danny had written,well, you like it.

He thought about Danny’s face. His broken nose, the little white scar on his eyebrow. His big dark eyes, the way they got even darker when he was turned on. The way his full mouth moved when he smiled. It was a really good face, and Mike was a fucking liar.

Nah, he said.

wyd?Danny asked, and Mike caught himself laughing at the callback. Then scowled at the phone. This was bad. This was really bad.

Halloween party, he said, and sent a snap of his torso, still half covered in gray paint, gradually being rubbed away when people touched him. On the shoulders, on the arms, brushing against him while they danced. It annoyed him. They weren’t the right hands.

What the hell are you supposed to be?

drax the destroyer, dude, are you so old you don’t know superheroes

You mostly look like you’re melting.

ok, the paint was a bad idea. it’s cold

I’m sure no one’s complaining.

compliments? you’re gonna make me think you like me

Mike.

????

nvm. Wait, is this a theme party?

And just like that, Mike was distracted from whatever Danny had been on the verge of saying.

It had been a rough game. Danny hadn’t had to fight anyone, but he hadn’t stretched long enough or carefully enough beforehand, maybe, or maybe his body was just breaking down again. Either way, everything hurt and his muscles were screaming in protest as he sat through the postgame shit. No interviews. He barely even noticed what he was eating, just shoveled it down and got the hell out of there, avoiding Landry’s puppy dog eyes because some of the guys were going out for Halloween.

Halloween in Vegas didn’t really have the same kind of appeal it might’ve had for him if he’d been fifteen years younger.

“I’m old,” he’d said to Landry, “and everything hurts. I’m going back to the hotel.”

“Dude, you’re notthatold, stop saying that, and it’s not every day you get to spend Halloween in Vegas, right? I bet the costumes and the chicks are gonna be nuts. Come onnnnn, Garcia.”

“I really don’t need to see any costumes,” he’d mumbled, and made his escape.

The hotel was barely a two-minute walk from the arena, which was good, because walking any farther was going to hurt like hell. His phone vibrated as he was walking and it was, unsurprisingly, Mike. The only person who regularly talked to him anymore.

By the time he thought to ask if it was a theme party, he was back at the hotel, stripped down to his boxers, supplementing painkillers with a drink from the minibar, which was probably not the best way to end the evening, but fuck it. It was a holiday for parties, and his—Mike—was on the other side of the country, half-naked and covered in body paint, and Danny was alone, avoiding a team full of children.

Mike had said,dude, it’s all comic book shit, at least for the team, and then he’d started going around the house and sending snaps of different Cons, guys Danny didn’t know very well, but Mike seemed very fond of.

this is what netty’s like all the time, he’d typed over a picture of an extremely large Russian guy in a black leather catsuit and red wig, striking a pose for the phone camera as he puffed out his hairy chest.

---