Page 85 of Game Misconduct

Mike patted him on the arm. “No problem.”

He was still in the penalty box when Landry scored the second goal, and he knew from then on that it was probably over.

It was a somber mood in the locker room once the game ended. It had been heartbreaking last year and it was equally heartbreaking this year. Singer’s head drooped as he stood before the team, Reed at his side.

“You all played your hearts out this year,” he said, his mouth a terse line. Singer always took the losses harder than anyone, and the rest of them took it hard. “Unfortunately, the Hornets did too. I’m very proud of everyone here. You all stepped up, and you all improved. Next year we’ll be even better. Thanks.”

Mike sat in his stall for a long time. It had felt bad last year, but it felt worse this year, because he’d felt like he’d been reallytrying, and it still wasn’t quite good enough. Sure, there was next season, but that never made losing feel any better. Everyone just looked fucking depressed. Reed was on the verge of tears—he knew the fight had led to the loss—and Sally, calm as always, looked like he might’ve been plotting Artyomov’s murder. Netty tried to spark up some interest in going out to party their sorrows away, but it seemed that most of the team was in Mike’s boat: he just wanted to go home and sleep for fifty years.

Even though Danny’s team had knocked him out of the playoffs, it made Mike feel a little better, almost instantly, to hear his voice later that night.

“Sorry, babe,” was the first thing Danny said.

“It’s okay,” Mike mumbled. “Someone’s gotta lose, and this time it was our turn.”

“You’ll get there next year.”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, do me one favor, okay, Danny?”

“What?”

“Just win the Cup, okay? If you had to knock us out at least take it to the fuckingend.”

“I’ll do my level best, Mike.”

“Okay. Seriously, though. I’m serious.”

“I know,” Danny said, the corner of his mouth tipped up in the barest of smiles.

“How are you feeling? Everything holding together?”

“Yeah,” Danny said, stretching his arm experimentally. “Shoulder’s a little stiff, knee’s a little achy, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“Just be careful. Tampa’s got a few guys who’re like—it’s a legal hit,technically.”

“Aw, Mike, are you worried about me?”

“’Course I fucking am! I just—Danny, I—I care about you a lot, okay?”

“Mike...”

Danny actually sounded a little choked up, and Mike felt the panic that always came with talking about his emotions too much lancing through his stomach. It was like a heart attack but also like you were going to completely shit yourself. That’s what emotions felt like sometimes. It was too close to saying things you couldn’t come back from, not if the other person didn’t feel the same way.

“I mean, don’t let it go to your head, you stupid asshole, okay? I just want you around for, like, the summer.”

“Okay,” Danny said, but he was smiling again, and Mike found himself smiling reflexively back.

“Now,” Mike said, clearing his throat, “let’s talk about the Tampa guys you’re gonna be up against. I think Cameron is gonna be a problem, he’s like basically your size, but he’s younger—”

Tampa played the kind of hockey Danny used to play at the beginning of his career, before stacking injuries caught up with him. Fast, brutal, and tough. The first game was a slugfest in more ways than one, a grind with no score until the third period, and a finish in OT. Danny had to fight Cameron once, after he tried to level Artyomov, and as he was getting punched in the face, he was thinking about the talk he’d had with Mike last night and the irony of it.

“I told you!” Mike said on the phone later.

“I know, bud, you were right.”

“Thatfucker.” His face was almost comically exaggerated in its frustration. “I wish I could’ve been on the ice with you. I would’ve kicked hisass.”

“I mean, I did okay,” Danny said mildly.