Page 83 of Game Misconduct

“Eh, I did all right.”

“Three points ain’t nothing to sneeze at,Danny.”

Danny had already caught up with the Cons’ game; they’d won too, 3–1. Their coach seemed to be experimenting with the lines and pairings, and Mike had been on the ice with Bee’s line often enough to put up an assist on her goal. He’d played really fucking well, like the combination of Danny’s push and the Cons’ coaches actually working with him had changed him into an entirely different player. He even looked different on the call, excited and smiling as he described the plays and the one fight he’d been forced into.

“And—what are you staring at, dude?” Mike demanded.

“You look really good, Mike. I mean—on the ice, now. Happy.”

Mike looked back at him, steady, a little wary. “I am. Danny—you’vemade me really happy. Like being able to do all of this. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.”

“You would have, buddy.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I didn’t—anyway, whatever, that doesn’t fucking matter. Anyway, uh, I’m gonna go home this summer for a bit, I think.”

Danny’s stomach sank, almost reflexively. He hadn’t thought about what he’d do over the summer—he had been staying in Pittsburgh, but the sneaky back parts of his mind had been thinkingmaybe, maybe you could spend some time in Philadelphia, see Celi and Josie...“Oh.”

“Would you come too? For some of it? I asked my mom...she said it would be fine.”

“Sure,” Danny said, his voice as steady as he could make it. His eyes burned.

Mike was grinning again, goofy and relieved, and said, “Cool, cool, cool. I haven’t made concrete plans yet ’cause, like, I’m planning to make it to the finals this year, you know?”

He was so fucking young and full of bravado and Danny swallowed the lump in his throat. “Not if you don’t make it past the second round, buddy.”

“Fuck you,” Mike said, but he was grinning, still, and Danny thought about saying it, again, the way he always did when they had to leave or when the calls ended, but instead, he stuck to shit-talking, because that was easy, and comfortable, and in the end it meant the same thing.

The playoffs this year felt different than they did last year. Last year Mike had been riding high on the nerves of actuallymakingit to the playoffs in his first real season when the Cons hadn’t done it in so long, but he was still barely getting any minutes, and then everything was completely ruined when they lost in the first round and it had been a bitter defeat. This year was different. Bee had her head screwed on straight, Mäkelä was on fire, and the top line was scoring like there was nothing in their way.

Mike felt like he had some small contributions to make. He was coming off of a career high of fourteen goals and thirty-two assists, and he still couldn’t quite believe that he wasn’t going to wake up and realize he’d been dreaming the entire time. He’d gone into the first round feeling in his bones that they were going to win the Cup,couldwin the Cup, because if you didn’t go in believing it, how was that ever gonna happen?

It didn’t seem like the first round was going to do anything to dissuade those thoughts. They won at home twice, won on the road, lost at home, and then won the series in DC. Mike was on the ice for the game-winning goal, scored by Reed, and he was enveloped in the messy celly afterward, thinking,I’m so fucking lucky, what the fuck, I need to call Danny and tell him about this.

In the postgame interviews Mike realized he was smiling more than he usually was when one of the reporters asked him about it.

“Uhhh, it’s just really good to like...you know, last year was the first year we’d made it to the playoffs in five seasons, and we got knocked out in the first round. I think it kinda speaks for itself, bro.”

The Hornets had easily won their series. Four games to nothing. Mike almost felt sorry for the Oaks, because he knew howthatfelt, but he was too busy feeling nervous about the fact that he’d be playing against Danny again. He wanted to win this so fucking badly, but he had some misgivings. For one, he didn’t want to be responsible for injuring Danny and he didn’t want to have to keep fighting. He never thought he’d actually think that sentence, let alone say it, so he kept it to his goddamn self.

Chapter Nine

May

The second round wasn’t any easier on Danny than the first. Playoffs were always like that: you were amped up on adrenaline even while your body was eating itself from the inside out because you were run the fuck down after an eighty-something-game season. It was worse the older he got, although he grimly suited up for every game and went out there like nothing had changed. It was mostly sheer willpower that did it, willpower and the fact that he barely did anything except come home, drink, and pass out on the couch. The mountain of take-out containers in the trash can was growing, but he didn’t have the motivation to throw them out. At this rate his sheets were probably about to get up off of the bed and walk away under their own power.

They had home ice advantage in Pittsburgh for the second round too, and he thought about inviting Mike to crash at his place instead of the hotel. He didn’t do it, because it was both too risky in the general sense, and too dangerous to let Mike see how he was living these days. Also because he was superstitious enough that he didn’t want to fuck during the playoffs and he knew that would’ve been a lot more difficult if Mike had actually been there.

Still, it was good being home with Buddy, at least. A little easier to fall asleep at night in his own bed rather than a hotel.

The first game went by quickly. He wasn’t on the ice with Mike at all, which was the strange consequence of being the lowest man on the defense organizational chart while Mike was almost always second pair now. That was almost a relief, because he didn’t want to fight if he didn’t have to. The Hornets lost, 3–2 in OT, and the disgruntled noises of the crowd stayed with him all that night.

They only texted when they got home, both too exhausted to call. The last thing Mike wrote was,hey, hang in there, ok? i got a lot of shit i need to show u in gardena this summer.

The Hornets won the next two games, which Danny mostly remembered in flashes because he was so fucking tired, he was practically sleep-playing. Mäkelä pulled with a lower body injury in the first of the two, Morin skating anxiously around the bench during the brief time-out while they got him off the ice. Gears had his first playoff goal and let Danny pick him up off the ice and whirl him around, grinning like an idiot the entire time. Mike scored, too, but Danny couldn’t celebrate with him. It was a strange feeling, trying to control his face on the bench, when part of him cursed the scoreboard and part of him wanted to be on his feet yelling.

The Cons won the next game and tied the series at 2–2, and then the Hornets took the lead again. The night before they were due to play the sixth game, Mike FaceTimed Danny from his apartment, and Danny looked him over again. He had a black eye and a raw abrasion on his chin, and he seemed more solemn than he had the last few calls.

“If we don’t win tomorrow, we’re out of the running.”

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