Page 88 of Game Misconduct

“You have to do something to convince him,” Bee agreed. “Something to stop him.”

“I do not think you can do it from here,” Mäkelä cut in.

“From here,”Mike repeated. “I can’t do itfrom here.”

“Michael—” Bee said, almost like a warning.

“No! Danny is—Danny’s like. He’s worth taking that goddamn chance, for fuck’s sake. I’m going to—hang on, I gotta call his sister and I gotta get to the airport, sorry, I can’t—”

Danny was well aware that what he was doing was fucking stupid, but that didn’t mean he was going to make a different choice. He’d been through enough concussions to know that this was a bad one. He wasn’t sure how blacked-out Danny had managed to talk his way through the preliminary examination, but by this point in his career, he knew what to say to get back out on the ice, and he’d intentionally thrown off the baseline evals when he’d gone through them the first season he’d played with the Hornets. So it wasn’t surprising he’d managed to do it even with his brain disconnected. That didn’t mean he felt any better, physically.

He slept most of the plane ride back to Pittsburgh, and he threw up once in the plane bathroom, flushing the toilet at the same time to mask the sound of his retching. His head ached and he felt dizzy whenever he walked. It was hard to respond to simple questions, and sometimes he’d see double when he moved his head too fast. But he was determined to stay on the ice anyway, because at this rate, he wasn’t going to make it to the next season.

He took a cab home from the airport and hauled his bags up the stairs to the house and walked right to the couch. Gingerly settled himself down, and sort of just...passed out.

He woke up an interminable amount of time later, groggy and disoriented, to the sound of the doorbell ringing furiously. The noise was awful, slicing right through his skull, and at first, he lay there hoping whoever it was would go away. This turned out to be wishful thinking, because the bell kept ringing, and his headache was pounding in the back of his skull.

He’d missed two calls from Marty. He’d get to those later.

Danny stood up, shedding Buddy off of his shoulder as he did, and limped for the front door, intending to curse out whichever neighbor had been determined to torture him that way. It took him a minute to coordinate his hands to get the door unlocked, but when he did, he slammed it open.

Mike was standing on the porch. His hair was still at its playoffs length and he was wearing clothes wrinkled like he’d slept in them. He looked exhausted.

“...what the fuck?” Danny said finally.

Mike stared back at him, arms crossed over his chest. “Let me in.”

Danny hesitated. It was stupid. Of course he should let Mike in. But he knew what was coming next if he did and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.

“Please,” Mike said, and the look on his face cut right through Danny the same way the doorbell had.

He opened the door.

Mike threw himself at Danny, wrapping his arms around him. His balance was bad enough that it almost knocked him over, but he managed to hold himself steady. Hugged Mike back. It felt good. It felt so good. He’d missed it. It was grounding. Not just a warm body next to his, butMike, every stubborn inch of him.

“I’m gonna say some stuff to you,” Mike mumbled into Danny’s chest. “Let me talk.”

“Mike—”

“No! Don’t interrupt me. You fucking owe me this much, okay?”

Danny, his mouth dry, let Mike walk him backward until his legs hit the couch.

“Sit.”

He did.

Mike got down on his knees on the floor, in between the bracket of Danny’s legs. His hands rested on Danny’s thighs. It was a position he’d been in before, but there was nothing sexual about this, it was just Mike staring up at him with an expression that Danny couldn’t look at for too long. Like the sun, it hurt.

“Look. I know I’m not fucking good at talking about feelings. And I know you’re not any fucking good at listening to anyone. But I can’t let you go out there and play again. It’s too dangerous, you could permanently injure yourself, Danny, you could fuckingdie. Hockey’s not worth that.”

“Mike, it is worth it, and I have to.”

“Are you seriously going to do that to me?”

“I—” Danny faltered. He hadn’t thought about it in any sense except the damage he was going to do to himself. The damage he’d always done to himself and accepted as part of his life. Part of his personality.

That had been his entire value to any team he’d been on since that first injury, his ability to take damage and keep going even when it hurt. That was Danny: dependable, solid, a guy who gave 110% even when his body couldn’t physically keep up with him.