Page 2 of Game Misconduct

Wasn’t it?

Didn’t everyone have someone they needed to beat the shit out of, no matter where they were?

“Get the fuck out of my city” was the first thing he said to Daniel Garcia since the last game they’d played against each other, when Garcia had fought him to a draw and said,gotta try harder than that, motherfucker, I let you have the last one.

Garcia’s head snapped up. He looked different off the ice, without his helmet and mouthguard and his pads. For a moment his expression was unguarded. Surprised. Mike could see the white scar that cut through his left eyebrow, his scruffy eight-o’clock shadow, the thick eyelashes around and the dark circles underneath his eyes. His nose had been broken a few times, at least one of them by Mike; it had healed crooked. His mouth was full and turned down at the corners. And then the moment passed and whatever he had looked like before, now his face set into the implacable mask of the rink.

“You can’t kick me out of an entire city, Sato.” He sounded amused and Mike wanted to smash his face in. Garcia was wearing stupid black sneakers and stupid khaki shorts and a stupid black tank top that showed off every muscle in his shoulders and chest and arms. “It’s not yours.”

Mike wanted—tosmash his face in.

Instead he stepped forward, into the alley. He could feel his fists curling up, like they did when he was ready to throw down on the ice. He shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be talking to Garcia (why is he here, whyhere, specifically, his brain whispered). Garcia watched him approach, and dropped the cigarette on the ground, stubbed it out with his toe.

“Who says I can’t? What the fuck are you even doing here, anyway?”

Garcia laughed. It might have been a nice laugh, except for the fact that Mike hated him, except for the fact that he sounded exhausted. There wasn’t any humor in that noise. “None of your goddamn business, kid. Jesus Christ, leave me alone.”

He stepped farther back into the alley, like he was trying to get away. But there was nowhere else to go.

Garcia was right: Mike should have left him alone. But he couldn’t and he never had been able to. His pride and his fury couldn’t let him.Or, the nasty part of his brain whispered,your need for someone toseeyou?

Almost like he was watching himself from outside of himself, he got right up in Garcia’s face, close enough almost so their bodies touched. There was an inch of space in between them, but it felt like nothing. He had to look up at Garcia, something that had always annoyed the fuck out of him, but it didn’t matter now. He’d knocked that asshole’s teeth out before; they’d beat the shit out of each other every time they were in the same city. He could do it again.

He could do it here.

Garcia exhaled and Mike could smell his breath. Whiskey and cigarettes. He was close enough that he could see Garcia’s eyes, pupils wide and dark. He was close enough that he could feel the space between them, electric.

“Oh, I got it,” Mike said. “I see how it is. You’re a tough guy on the ice, but you’re a fucking coward off it.”

“Sato—”

“No! You don’t get to just fuckingshow upinmy city—”

Mike threw the first punch. He always threw the first punch. Slightly hysterically, he was furious about the fact that to hit Garcia in the eye, he had to punch up, like he was throwing his hands in the air for a dance. It connected because Garcia didn’t bother moving away. But then it was like something in him finally snapped, and the fight was on.

It was different throwing down when you weren’t on skates. Balance was different. Height was different. Strategy was different. Mike had no real strategy except staying out of reach and throwing punches at whatever part of Garcia he could. Some of them connected. Some of them didn’t. Mike was fast and quick; he knew it. Boxing jabs, in and out, light on his feet. Garcia didn’t have any of that. He had brute force and fists that connected with the kind of reverberation Mike could feel. Knew there’d be bruises in the morning.

Fucking good.

Then Garcia landed a hit to the side of Mike’s head that snapped his neck back, vision filled with stars, everything ringing. It was silent except for Mike’s ragged breath and Garcia’s slow exhale as he shook his hand out.

“Is that all you fucking got?” Mike demanded, when he managed to pull the shreds of his wits about him. He hoped that wasn’t going to be a concussion.

It happened faster than Garcia should have been able to move. For such a big man, for such a deliberate, inexorable fighter, he was quicker than Mike had expected. The force of his entire body, shoulder first, a check without pads, slammed Mike against the brick wall. Knocked the wind out of him. His elbow pinned Mike’s chest, digging in with such force that he almost couldn’t breathe. Fifty pounds over Mike’s 180, at least. He could feel his ribs creaking under it. Garcia’s entire frame pressed against him, trapping him in place. Mike could feel him. Everything. Every ounce of weight, every contour of his muscle. His fingers slammed Mike’s free wrist into the wall.

“No. It’s not.” Garcia’s voice wasn’t angry. There was something strange in it, though. Swallowed off in his throat. Mike looked up. Garcia’s eyes were wide and dark and wild, and Mike had split his lip open again. Blood dribbled down it onto his black shirt. “Give itup, Sato. You lost.”

“Yeah? Well, you can suck my dick,” Mike said, strangled, because the weight on his chest was choking him, punchy because he was furious, hadn’t been hurt nearly enough to feel any better about any of this. He struggled, squirming, his entire body vibrating against Garcia’s.

Garcia looked back at him, measuring. And the pressure was gone, abruptly, as he got down on his knees right there in the deep shadows of the fucking alley. Like he wasn’t wearing shorts, like the concrete wasn’t digging into his skin.

Mike’s mouth went dry and he felt kind of light-headed, but that was probably because all of the blood had rushed downward. “What the fuck,” he managed. This had to be the strangest thing that had ever happened to him. He half expected someone to jump out from behind a dumpster with a phone ready to film his reaction for a TikTok prank.

Garcia licked his bloody lip. “You said—what, are you fucking scared?”

“Jesus Christ,” was the only response Mike could manage. This was insane. He fucking hated Garcia. He hated him. Hehatedhim. But Garcia was looking up at him with those big dark eyes, half mocking, half measuring, face bloody and bruised, and Mike’s dick was into it, the fucking traitor.

It twitched. Okay. Really into it.