Page 86 of Game Misconduct
A shuffle of footsteps drags my attention to the side.
“Hey, Lasker.”
I turn.
It’s Cal. Jacket half-buttoned, tie crooked, face flushed and unsteady. He sways slightly, holding up his phone with agrin like we’re drinking buddies instead of professional colleagues.
“You good?” I ask, voice rough.
He grins wider. “Totally. Just needed air. You?”
“Same.”
A beat of silence.
Then he shrugs and sways again. “I need to go home. Gonna head out.”
“How did you get here?”
“I drove.”
That yanks me straight out of my spiral. “Fuck that; you’re not driving now.”
“Nah,” he says too quickly, “I’m fine, man.”
“Fine my ass.” I step in, voice low but sharp. “You’re drunk as hell, and you’re not getting behind the wheel.”
Cal stiffens, trying to puff up. “I’m good. I’ve driven worse?—”
“I don’t give a shit. That was fucking stupid anyway. You’re not getting anywhere near the driver’s seat of a car tonight.”
He blinks at me, surprised.
I step closer to him, hands in my pockets. “Look, man. You got a team now. You’re part of something. You don’t fuck that up because you’re too proud to call a ride.”
He scowls, then shrugs again, all bravado melting. “Fine. I can’t feel my damn knees, anyway.”
I sigh, pulling out my phone. “Give me your address.”
He hesitates.
“Cal.”
“I don’t know it.”
What the actual fuck? “You don’t know your address?”
“I can’t remember it right now.”
I sigh the long sigh of a man who wishes he was anywhere but here but knows he’s right where he needs to be.
I hold out my hand. “Let me see your wallet.”
A semblance of anger that only makes him look like a petulant boy crosses his face.
Damn, he’s so young.
“Lasker, you got fucking money; you don’t need mine!”
