Power Play (11 page)

“I’m just saying, dude, you haven’t been home in four days—”

“What the hell, Hux? Why do you even care? I pay my goddamn share of the rent.” Drake, when he wasn’t wearing all that goalie gear, wasn’t a physically imposing man. He wasn’t nearly as tall as the league average for goalies, at just shy of five foot ten, and he was built more like a soccer player than anything.

Huxley, on the other hand, was six foot two, two-hundred-something pounds, and all muscle. He crossed his arms over his chest, and glared while Drake slammed things into his locker with more force than necessary.

“Jesus, Drake. You know, people can give a shit what happens to you, asshole. It’s called being your friend. Did you not watch
Sesame Street
as a kid, or what?” Huxley raised his voice a few notches. “You’re seriously not staying at Gavin’s, are you? I thought you hated that guy.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Drake responded, his own voice rising. He slammed the locker door. “Just back off, Hux.”

“Is there a problem?” Misha asked, his voice cool. He resisted the urge to rub his temples. Misha fully expected the answer to that question to be no, but Hux surprised him.

“Yeah. There is,” he snapped, glaring at Drake. “But good luck getting whatever it is out of Captain Drake, here.” With that, Hux stomped off and banged—loudly, of course—out of the locker room.

Misha turned toward Drake, and he wondered what Max would say in that situation. He wished Max were there to deal with it. “Anything you need to tell me, Drake?”

Drake glanced at him, and there was something about Drake’s defensiveness, his wariness, and the haunted look in his eyes. Misha recognized it and wished with all his heart that he didn’t. He’d had a bad feeling about the situation from the moment Max first told him about witnessing the confrontation in the parking lot, and it was only getting worse.

Drake opened his mouth, but before he could snap anything, Misha held a hand up. “Coach Ashford told me there was a man bothering you in the parking lot. Has this man been showing up at the games?”

Drake looked angry and tension tightened the lean lines of his body, but he nodded. “Yeah.”

“This is affecting your play.” It wasn’t a question. “Tell me his name. I will make sure he is not at the next one.”

That clearly was not what Drake expected. His posture had gone tense but he hunched in on himself and no longer looked at Misha. He wasn’t the same goalie who’d fiercely smashed his stick on the ice in Toledo. “Just let Lathrop start. He should. He’s good.”

“You are not the coach,” Misha said, choosing his words very carefully. “I am. Lathrop will start a game when I say so. You are the starting goalie, and you are the captain of this team.” Misha kept his gaze even, his voice firm but calm. “Tell me this man’s name, and I’ll contact the ticket office.”

“Belsey’ll have a fucking calf if you tell him you’re turning away a ticket sale,” Drake muttered.

Probably. “You let me deal with Belsey. I don’t want you to worry about that.” He paused. “What happens out there?” He gestured vaguely to the parking lot outside the arena. “It does not need to follow you in here.”

For a moment Misha saw naked fear in Drake’s eyes. “You don’t need to do this.”

“I do what I think is best for this team,” Misha said, still carefully watching his words. Drake was skittish and he knew the wrong thing could set off Drake’s temper. “Right now you are the goalie and you do not need distractions. If that changes, I will address it. Is that clear?”

Drake looked away, but not before Misha saw relief flicker briefly over his features and his shoulders lower slightly. “Yeah. I mean yes, Coach. That’s clear.”

“Good.” Misha turned and headed toward the door.

“Coach?”

“Yes?” Misha stopped by the doorway, feeling a warm contentment at hearing someone address him as coach. He hadn’t realized how much he liked that.

There was a second of silence, and then Drake very quietly said, “Thanks.”

Misha nodded, let himself out of the locker room, and headed toward Belsey’s office.

MISHA WAS
not familiar with the expression “have a calf,” but if it translated to Belsey staring at him and calling him an idiot, then Drake had perfectly nailed Belsey’s reaction.

“Let me get this straight,” Belsey said, his eyes boring into Misha’s. He had the blinds open behind his desk, and the sun was in Misha’s eyes. It didn’t help his migraine, but he would not ask Belsey to close them. “You want me to say no. To someone. Who wants. A ticket.”

Before Misha could say that yes, that was exactly what he wanted, Belsey continued. “No. Absolutely not. Out of the question. I’m not turning away a ticket sale because our goalie can’t keep his shit together.”

Misha’s stomach twisted with anger, but he was long familiar with schooling his expression to not show emotions. “And if this man is a threat to the safety of one of my players?”

“Is he? Because I don’t think he is. I think he’s probably some… some… dope fiend that Drake’s gotten himself involved with, and—”

“Isaac Drake is not on drugs,” Misha interrupted. “The players are drug tested. You know this.”

Belsey snorted. “Sure. And no one knows how to fake a piss test these days. Look, Samarin, I’m glad you’re taking care of the players. But the truth is, Drake’s always been a drama magnet, and God knows he shouldn’t be a starting goalie if he can’t play a game without being distracted by someone in the crowd watching him. That’s the point of having a crowd. Which we really don’t. So no. I’m not going to stop someone from paying to come watch a damn game. That’s absurd.”

“I think—”

“I’m not finished,” Belsey snapped. “And if it gets out that we’re turning away people at the door, what do you think that’s going to do for the reputation of this team?”

“You were willing to use what happened with me and Max for publicity,” Misha’s temper briefly boiled over.

“And who sat in my fucking conference room and told me that ‘it’s not about the past and you’re trying to sell drama, not hockey’?”

Not Misha, if Belsey’s attempt at his accent was to be believed. He breathed slowly in and out and focused on the throbbing pain, for once letting it center him. “There is a difference between drama and safety,” he said, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

“Yeah. And if you give me some reason to believe Drake’s safety is really in danger, Samarin, I’ll entertain the idea with some kind of seriousness. But for now? You need to go do your job, and if Drake can’t do his, get someone who can.”

Misha nodded stiffly. He would not go back to Drake and tell him that he could not keep him safe, not after he promised. Perhaps he could have a word with the front office. Maybe he should have done that first.

Belsey was nothing if not clever. And sneaky enough to know what Misha was planning. “Oh, and Samarin? If I find out that you’ve gone behind my back about this? Which I will, because this is my team, I’m going to have to pare down my coaching staff.”

Belsey’s expression slid into a smile that Misha in no way trusted. “And I don’t mean you either. We don’t really need an assistant coach. So. Keep that in mind. Ashford isn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but I can’t lie and say he’s not good with the team. But I don’t really need him, and if you can’t do your job, then neither do you. Do you understand me?” Belsey asked sharply when Misha remained quiet. “Because I want this to be perfectly clear.”

It was clear that Belsey would fire Max if Misha attempted to keep his promise to the Spitfires’ goalie. Misha did not like feeling helpless. It reminded him of being young, vulnerable, and afraid. “I understand. Yes.”
I think you are a prick, but I understand.

“Good. Anything else?” Belsey was shuffling papers, already dismissing him. Misha wondered what the man did all day. Mentally direct commercials? Buy automobiles and expensive jewelry? Probably.

“No,” Misha said. “There’s nothing else.”

Misha went home, and the migraine blossomed into full flower by the time he parked the car and went inside. Max was not there. He’d left a message while Misha was meeting with Belsey. He said he was trying to clean his apartment and that he’d invited a few of the players who were orphaned over the holiday to come to Thanksgiving dinner so they wouldn’t be alone.

The message eased some of Misha’s anger, but not enough. He wanted to work out, but he was incapacitated by the migraine, and he didn’t want to compound being furious with throwing up all over himself.

Misha went for the bottle of vodka in the freezer, held it in his hands, and felt the cold seep through his skin. He put it back, grabbed an ice pack, and went down the hall to his bedroom.

There were a pair of shoes that weren’t his next to Max’s side of the bed. There was also a paperback spy thriller and a book about learning Russian on the nightstand. It made him smile. Max’s attempts at Russian were endearing. A few nights before, Max tried to use the book to decipher one of Misha’s tattoos that said “Trust Only Yourself.” It took him forever, and when he eventually worked it out, he threw his arms up in bed and cheered like he just scored a goal.

The memory of that moment eased the anger until all Misha felt was the migraine. It was still not pleasant, so he went into the bathroom and noticed Max’s toothbrush and contact case on the counter. He put them away and then got the bottle of migraine medicine from the cabinet.

Misha filled up a glass and washed the pill down without a second thought. Then he went into the bedroom, drew the shades, undressed, and lay down in bed with the ice pack over his eyes. The medicine kicked in gradually, and twenty minutes later, with the memory of Max’s fingers tracing the Cyrillic on his stomach, Misha fell asleep.

MAX INTENDED
to stay at his place that night, considering he thought he’d be cleaning until about two in the morning. He was hardly ever home, so his apartment looked like a crime scene. But when he went to order a pizza for dinner, he found himself staring with horror at his phone.

He had seven messages. Seven. They weren’t all from one person either.

They were messages from seven of his players who thought it’d be great to join Max, Misha, and Max’s parents for Thanksgiving dinner.

What. The. Fuck.

When Max made the offer, he expected only one or two of the Spitfires to take him up on it. But as he stared at his phone, three more text messages joined the seven, and then two more. He was going to host an entire ECHL hockey team at his small apartment for Thanksgiving. In two days.

Max looked wildly around at his living room. If he moved the couch into the bedroom, then rented some card tables, it might just work. Maybe.

Yeah. If you knock down the walls and annex your neighbor’s apartment.

What the hell was he going to do? There was no way he could fit his team in there, but there was no way he could turn around and tell them he was just kidding. His mom would murder him, for one, even though she might do that anyway when he told her how many people she’d have to make green-bean casserole for. Oh God. He was going to get shamed and disowned. And grounded. Somehow.

His phone chimed again, and Max groaned loudly. “Why don’t any of you want to go somewhere else?” he asked, though it was his fault for thinking anyone would have a chance to head home. They only had two days off, and some teams were even scheduled to play on Thanksgiving.

So, okay. Yeah. Maybe he should have expected the response. Max’s parents were making a trip to see him to be supportive of their son in his new career and in his new adopted home. And they also probably liked the forecast that said it would be in the midfifties. He wondered if they’d be mad if he suggested skimping on turkey and ordering a few dozen pizzas instead. Maybe they made turkey pizzas.

Max wondered how Misha would feel about hosting him, his parents, and their hockey team for a holiday he didn’t celebrate. Max dialed Misha’s number before he could chicken out of asking, but Misha’s phone went straight to voicemail.

Instead of leaving a message, Max grabbed his keys, a pizza coupon, and a few articles of clothing, and headed to Misha’s place.

Misha’s felt a lot more like home than his apartment. And it had a comfier bed, was always clean, and someone cooked him food when he was there. Not to mention how often he got laid. His place still had boxes he hadn’t unpacked, and throwing a blanket over them did nothing to make them appear like a cleverly draped piece of furniture. There was nothing in his fridge except two Bud Lights and some probably moldy deli ham, and the laundry was communal—in a community clearly in too much of a rush to wait for Max to switch his laundry before dumping his wet clothes on the floor.

Sure. Maybe he left them in the washer a day or two, but still.

The house was quiet when Max let himself in—he had a key, which made him smile when he thought about it—and that was weird because it was only about eight thirty. Misha was definitely home. His car was in the driveway. But even though Max teased him about being an old man, he shouldn’t be asleep yet.

Max eventually found Misha in the bedroom, asleep on top of the covers with the shades drawn. On the bed next to him was a slowly melting ice pack that had obviously fallen off Misha’s forehead when he moved in his sleep. Max picked it up and went into the bathroom to put it in the sink. On the counter was Misha’s bottle of migraine medication.

Misha had a migraine, and he’d taken his medicine. Max turned the bottle over in his fingers and smiled a little. Misha had elected to not suffer. It felt a bit like a victory, like translating that tattoo a few days before. Less sexy, but still meaningful.

He left the pills on the counter in case Misha needed to take another one after Max asked him about Thanksgiving.

Max went back to the bedroom, uncertain if he should just let Misha sleep and worry about it tomorrow. He reached out gently and drew his fingers through Misha’s hair. It felt nice in a way that was different than sex, but somehow just as intimate.