Page 87 of Game Misconduct
It was like everything from the whole season was hitting him at once: how much he cared about Danny and how Danny was slowly killing himself and how fuckingCameroncould have killed him there. It wasn’t like he was crying, exactly, because Mike didn’t do that, but he could hear the way his breathing sounded, high and ragged, scratchy in his throat. He stayed there until the announcers started talking about Danny again.
“It looks like Garcia is back on the bench, folks, and he’s been cleared to keep playing—”
“What?”Mike said, pulling himself out of Bee’s arms.
“What?” she repeated. “That’scrazy, he was clearly unconscious.”
“He’s really stubborn. It’s. Jesus, I hope he didn’t fuckinglieto them,” Mike said, even though he knew that was exactly what Danny had done. “Excuse me, I gotta—”
He grabbed his phone.WHAT R U DOING, he texted Danny.DONT PLAY YOU IDIOT
Bee and Mäkelä grimly watched the TV. Danny was back on the ice, but Mike couldn’t bear to look. He had probably sent at least ten increasingly crazed texts, which he knew Danny wouldn’t be able to read because his phone was in the dressing room. Neither Bee nor Mäkelä said anything to him, although Bee kept her hand on his shoulder the whole time. He was grateful they weren’t trying to talk because he didn’t know what he was going to say. All he could do was stare at the TV and clench his fists and hope that Danny wasn’t going to fuckingdie.
The worst part was that as Mike watched, he could tell that Danny wasn’t skating the way he normally did. It wasn’t even the injury, he just missed things he usually would have caught or looked aggressive going after the puck in a situation when normally he wouldn’t. Mike wouldn’t have been able to see it if he hadn’t spent so much time studying Danny’s games, but it was like watching a different person wearing his body, and Mike didn’t fucking like it at all.
Finally, the game ended—the Hornets won—and Danny hadn’t taken any other hits. Mike gave it two hours, sweating the whole time, and then went into his bedroom to make the call.
“Hello?” Danny said when he answered. He was in his hotel room, alone, and he looked awful, with two bruised eyes and hollows in his cheeks. He evensoundedbad. Groggy and in pain.
“Danny! What the hell were you—are youokay—what thefuck—”
“I’m fine, Mike,” Danny mumbled. “I’m good to skate. The trainers said so.”
“How thefuckare you good to skate? I saw your head hit the ice, and I saw you—that didn’t evenlooklike you out there.”
Danny paused, for a long time, and then he said, “I don’t remember talking to the trainers. I don’t remember going back out on the ice.”
Mike couldn’t even say anything at first. The breath just came out of his lungs like he’d been punched. He listened to Danny breathing on the other end of the line, almost comforted that it was like, proof that he was still alive. “Dude, that’s concussion shit. That’sbadconcussion shit.”
“I know.”
“Why the fuck are you—”
“Look, Mike, you wouldn’t fucking understand. This is—this is one of my last years where I’m going to have this chance. The last year, this entire—what I’ve done to myself has a chance of paying off. I have to be out there. I have to do this for the team.”
“No youdon’t! You don’t have to do anything! The team will fucking understand if you can’t play because you have aconcussion!”
“I have to—”
“Fuck this! What about your—talk to Bee, for fuck’s sake, if you won’t listen to me.”
“Mike—”
But Mike was already dragging the computer back out into the living room and slamming it down on the coffee table. “Bee! Would you fucking tell him it’scrazyto try to play with a concussion?”
Bee, however surprised she may have been, was immediately up to the task. Her serious face was intent on Danny’s image as she said, “Mr. Garcia, please listen to Michael.”
“Mister—it’s just Danny, Jesus.”
“You are not helping your team by playing this way,” she said sternly.
“Look—thank you for—can you put Mike back on, please?”
Bee handed the computer over and Mike stared at Danny’s exhausted, worn-out, injured face, like if he looked intently enough, he could change Danny’s mind. He hated how fucking small his voice sounded when he said, “Danny,please.”
“Look, babe,” Danny said. “I have to. I’m sorry. Look, I have to go,” and he ended the call.
Mike was left sitting there, with Bee and Mäkelä staring at him. This wasn’t exactly how he’d wanted this to go, but he was too worried for Danny to care about being embarrassed. “What thefuckdo I do, Bee? He can’t play. He’s going to, like—get serious brain damage, or post-concussion syndrome, or something. He’s going to fucking kill himself.”