Page 68 of Game Misconduct
Mom looked pained when he said that, and for a moment he could almost convince himself it was because she was worried about him and not because she thought less of him for fighting. “I’m glad to hear that, Michael.”
He showed them around the locker room, giving them a brief rundown of what he had to do to get ready for the games, what he had to do after them, and introducing them to anyone from the team who still remained. No one embarrassed him that much, all of the guys were mostly just thrilled to be able to tell his parents how much he’d improved and how they picked a good day to attend, but Netty noogied him in the head and said, “I thought Misha emerge fully formed and angry,” grinning as he did it, and Mom looked like she might murder him.
Bee, on the other hand, hugged Mom and then Dad warmly, so warmly that both of them looked a little surprised. “Michael is one of my favorite people,” she told both of them, laying on the Quebecois charm, “mon frère d’armes, if you will. It’s an honor to meet both of you, madame, monsieur.”
Both of his parents looked at each other, at Mike, and at Bee again. “It’s an honor to meet you too, Beatrice—”
“Bee, please—”
All in all, the whole thing could have gone worse. Mom and Dad didn’t stay that long, because they were old and he had a curfew to make, but when he walked them out to Figueroa Street, both of them hugged him again.
“I’m glad we could meet your friends,” Dad said, after he pulled away. “They seem like a good team.”
“I, uh, I’m really happy to be playing here,” Mike mumbled. It was one thing to talk about feelings with Danny but another thing entirely to do it in front of his parents. The whole night felt surreal, like a dream. Any minute he’d wake up in the penalty box and discover he’d taken a nasty hit to the head, in like, 2018 or something, and everything that had happened to him since then was some kind of brain damage.
He watched them walk away until they vanished in the crowd.
On the way back to the hotel, he texted Danny.hey, wyd?
Danny didn’t answer, and Mike frowned at his phone. It was only eight thirty in Pittsburgh, and the Hornets weren’t playing. He hated fucking worrying, he hated knowing what Danny was probably doing, and he hated not being there to distract him. It was the only sour note on the rest of the night.
As he was getting into the cold hotel bed, his phone beeped; Danny was FaceTiming him.
When he answered, Mike searched his face to see if he was drunk, but as usual he couldn’t tell. Danny looked the way he always did: tired and stupid handsome and Mike’s mouth felt a little dry when he said, “Hey.”
Danny smiled, slow and wide, and said, “That was a beautiful fuckin’ goal, babe.”
Mike dug his teeth into his lower lip, thought about all of the things he wanted to say, and settling for something safe, drawled, “Yeah? How’re you gonna congratulate me?” And he focused on the way Danny’s eyes went dark and intent and tried to put the rest of it out of his head.
Phone sex, it turned out, was easier than talking about feelings. But it still felt bad, avoiding the things he wanted to say. Who fucking knew?
Danny’s January ground by interminably. He was exhausted and his body was giving out on him, both because he had an iron grip on what he was drinking and when he was drinking it and that in itself was wearying, but also because he was working with the rookies to get them into playoff shape, and he was still playing his usual minutes and taking his usual abuse on the ice.
The biggest change had been Landry’s attitude. The kid hadn’t toned down his asshole routine when it came to opposing players, but Danny had been gratified to note that any chirps were based on individual characteristics and not the kind of language that had almost brought them to blows. Landry hadn’t asked about Mike again, but he hadn’t said anything to anyone else either. Danny would take it. If that’s what it took to teach the kid a fucking lesson, it was worth the risk of telling someone who couldn’t handle it.
A few weeks in, he called his parents on his off day, before he went to the gym. It was anticlimactic in a way, because he’d built it up so much in his head. But one morning he just knew that he’d have to do it. He’d woken up with a weird buzzing under his skin, like the physical personification of his knowledge that everything was going to go to shit this year. Like the sense of impending doom he always felt had worked its way to the surface, finally.
He did it early in the morning, before he would be too tired and before he could justify drinking, before they would be exhausted from a day at the diner. Ma picked up almost immediately, and she cried throughout the whole conversation, while he told her he was fine, tried to reassure her that he reallywasfine, mentioned he was seeing someone, a really nice guy actually, they’d like him a lot. That his health was fine. He actually lost count the number of times he said,I’m fine, Ma, I’m fine, knowing Pa was listening in the background, not saying anything, just absorbing Danny’s voice.
“Lo siento, Mama,” Danny said, over and over again, but there were only so many times you could sayI’m sorrybefore that didn’t mean anything either. They certainly knew that, but they loved him, so they let him do it anyway.
“Don’t be a stranger this time,mijo,” Pa said, finally.
“I won’t,” Danny lied.
When they were satisfied, or at least, when they stopped asking him questions like lawyers with a recalcitrant witness, he finally hung up. He really missed them. He was really fucked up; he had really fucked things up. He stood there for a minute, shaking, and decided that he was going to bend his morning rule because he sure as fuck deserved one after that. So Danny got drunk, and then he went to the gym.
Mike texted while he was between sets,im gonna be at the allstar game for bee will you come? make it worth yr while. After a second, he added an eggplant emoji.
Michael, what the fuck?
uh, the eggplant is a dick, dude, bc im gonna to give you the eggplant slash dick
One, how old do you think I AM, and two, is that really fucking necessary?
old as balls, and yes
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