Page 5 of Game Misconduct

Or maybe, his brain whispered nastily,you’ll get lucky and he will.

II. FALL

Chapter Two

October

Danny was getting old.

Notoldold; he was barely thirty-five. But definitely hockey old.

It took less and less to fuck up his body after a rough game, and it took longer and longer to recover. Danny stood in one of the cryotherapy tubes that the front office had invested in last year and felt his lungs expand in the push of below-freezing cold gas, blood rushing in his veins. It was better than an ice bath, but it didn’t do much to force the ache from his hips or from his shoulders or any of the number of other small pains he lived with every day. Not in the long term.

It did allow him to get out of the CEC without limping too badly where other people could see him, though, so it was worth it.

The preseason grind was worse this year. He remembered a time when he’d looked forward to it, when it meant the year was going to start in earnest, when it meant more time on the ice. For as long as he could remember, Danny had loved hockey. Loved it more than anything, loved it more than anyone he’d ever been involved with. Loved it long after they left him. He still loved it, but now he just felt tired. Old and tired, even after a win. Felt like shit even after a good fight.

They’d lost tonight and that felt worse.

He said goodnight to Brian, the assistant equipment manager, hustled himself into his sweats, and took the slow walk out to his car. It was a beautiful fall night, the moon was a perfect crescent above him, and Danny looked at the yawning dark of the parking lot and thought,okay.

Some nights he’d just go for a drive for a few hours, doing loops around the city until he could barely keep his eyes open, before returning to the Victorian he’d bought in Highland Park. He’d been with the Hornets for two seasons, but it still didn’t really feel like home. He had some furniture but not much else. Hadn’t seen much of a need for it.

Tonight he went straight home, though, because they were playing the Cons tomorrow and he was definitely going to have to fight, and it was guaranteed to be a bad one. Some guys talked about the dread they felt before a game, knowing they had to throw down, psyching themselves up for it, but at this point in his life everything was one slow smear of exhaustion and numbness. Even when he knew he might get the shit kicked out of him, he didn’t think about it at all beyond the peripheral awareness that his body was going to hurt later.

But it always hurt.

That was why he had Percocet. That was why he had alcohol.

He dropped his bag in the foyer and went into the kitchen without turning on the lights. He cracked open a beer, swallowed two Percs with it, went into the living room, and lowered his body gingerly down onto the couch. And when the beer was finished he opened another one. And another one. He watched some random cooking show in the background. When he looked up, Gordon Ramsay was yelling at people. Some of them cried. It took a half hour or so, but finally, the aches faded into the background, and he could exhale.

Danny cracked his fourth beer. Checked his phone. Sighed when he saw the notifications. After every preseason game he’d played, Sato had DM’d him with increasingly obnoxious insults. The first:you look slow as shit, old man, you fighting in your sleep or what.After a win:what the hell did you contribute anyway, i could skate fucking circles around you. After a particularly messy fight where Danny didn’t have the full range of motion in his arm but had given it a go anyway:your niece could probably hit harder than you. Danny read every single message, but never responded.

What could he even have said?

He wasn’t sure what to make of Sato. Wasn’t sure what to make of himself anymore, if he was being honest. Wasn’t sure why he had done what he had done that night in Philadelphia.

Sure, Sato was hot as shit, with his wiry muscles and his pouty mouth and the blackwork tattoos—a mix of woodcut style and American trad—disappearing under his clothing in a way that made Danny want to know how far down they went. If they had met in a different way he probably would have wanted to fuck Sato anyway.

But they hadn’t, and he did.

He’d walked away from Sato. Away from that alley. Back to his sister, Araceli, and his family in that fucking restaurant, so claustrophobic and warm, so many questions about how he was doing and what he was doing and whether he was happy and making healthy decisions, he’d had to leave to clear his head. Left them gaping in his wake. Lied about the black eye and bloody lip and scraped knees when he’d finally gone back, unable to avoid them anymore. Knew they hadn’t believed him when he’d said it was nothing. He’d seen their faces. They’d been worried about him. They were always worried about him. They were always worried he was making unhealthy decisions, worried he was shutting them out.

That was all Araceli. Healthy decisions. Being open and honest.

And that was all Danny, doing exactly the opposite, unable to help himself.

He didn’t know how to tell them that there was nothing to worry about. He just had to make it through two more years, he’d retire, and it would be fine. He didn’t know how to tell them his body was breaking down, but he couldn’t give up the game, not just yet. He didn’t know how to tell them that even though he couldn’t give it up, he didn’t love it the same way.

He didn’t know how to tell them that he barely felt anything anymore.

He’d felt something in Philadelphia. He felt something now, looking at his inbox and every nasty thing Sato had ever written to him. He didn’t know what thatwasyet, but it wasn’t numb.

you talk a lot of shit for a guy who can’t back it up, Danny said, and hit send.

Bee watched Mike with that disconcerting stare, the one that made you feel like she could see right through your fucking skin and into your guts. Mike wouldn’t actually be surprised if she could. They were up later than they normally would have been on a game night, hanging out on the couch, his legs sprawled over her lap. Bee put on the latest Hornets’ preseason game on demand in preparation for their game the next day. He had already seen it, but he wasn’t going to tellherthat. It was good to have her home again, and it meant more to him than he wanted to admit that they had the chance to actually spend some time together again.

He pretended not to watch while watching from the corner of his eye and still keeping half an eye on his notifications, and she watched until she’d noticed, and then started looking at him suspiciously.