Power Play (16 page)

Max’s face was the approximate color of the red on the Spitfires’ logo. “Umm. I was just texting Misha.”

“Oh. How is Misha?” his mother asked, smiling. “It was so kind of him to let us borrow his kitchen. What a nice man he is.”

“Is he your best friend, Uncle Max?” Schyler asked, climbing on the couch next to him.

Max smiled and ruffled his niece’s hair. Best friend was easy. He could definitely cop to that one. “Yup.”

“Do you kiss him?”

That, on the other hand….

“Schyler,” Vanessa said, her tone gently chastising. “We don’t ask people who they kiss. Remember?” She gave Max an apologetic look. “She’s learning about families. It’s great because she’s absolutely fine with the idea of alternative relationships, but she likes to have everything all neat and orderly, so she asks a million questions.” Vanessa patted her husband on the knee. “I wonder where she gets that from.”

“Sorry, Uncle Max,” Schyler said. She snuggled up next to him and patted him on the arm, mimicking her mother to a T. “But if he’s your best friend, maybe you should kiss him. My friend Evan has two daddies. I think they’re probably friends too. And I know they kiss sometimes because Evan told me so.”

“Schyler,” Scott said, but he was doing that thing adults do when they’re trying not to laugh at something and sound stern instead. “Maybe go get that book you wanted to show Uncle Max. The one about hockey?”

“Oh.” Schyler jumped up and hit her hand on her head like a television character. “Don’t go anywhere, Uncle Max.” She paused. “I won’t ask any more kissing questions if I can show you the book.”

Max would have taken that deal even if the book were about geography instead of hockey “Sure, peanut.”

She beamed at the nickname, then rushed off to get her book.

“By show it to you, she means you’ll read it to her,” Scott warned. “I told you. She’s going to be a cult leader. But luckily it’ll just be the kind of cult that involves storybooks and candy.”

“I can handle that,” Max laughed. His niece came back and settled next to him with a copy of
The Magic Hockey Stick
, which was actually pretty cute. But he took advantage of the fact she couldn’t read yet, pulled out his phone, and sent Misha a text message that said
miss you
.

Because he did. But God, that was cheesy. Should he have done that? Just because he had the sudden realization of being in love with Misha didn’t mean it was cool to send sappy text messages.

Max read to his niece because she wanted to know what his text message said and he had to distract her by reading something. But he relaxed when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He waited until Schyler was distracted by bedtime hugs and kisses and then checked to see what Misha said. It felt like an eternity. He felt like an idiot.

Misha’s return message was in Russian, so Max had to copy the Cyrillic and translate it with the app he’d put on his phone. Apparently it was “and also you,” which made him realize with absolute certainty that he was probably going to have to talk to his parents about Misha during his visit. Because next year Max wanted him to be there—tall, awkward, probably broody, and forced to drink eggnog even if he didn’t like it. And he would have to read a book to Max’s niece, who would probably climb him like a tree.

Well. It wasn’t like Max could blame anyone for that, considering how often
he
did it.

The kids went to bed, and Max helped his mom clean up in the kitchen when she shooed Vanessa off with a wave and a stern reprimand to get some sleep. Suzanne kissed her on the cheek and watched her leave the kitchen with a fond smile.

“You like her, huh,” Max said, carrying a few cups to the sink. Some were still eggnog-laden. Why did they even bother with this? They should just drink the bourbon and skip the… whatever eggnog actually was.

“Of course,” Suzanne said, reaching out to take the cups from Max. “We can’t put those in the dishwasher. They’re china.”

“Why do people have cups you can’t wash?” Max asked, handing one over and picking up a towel for the drying he knew he’d be doing shortly.

“You can wash them, son. You just have to do them by hand,” his mother said, shaking her head. “I worry about you.” Her teasing tone said she was kidding, but Max fell silent as they worked in companionable silence.

“Did you like Emma?”

It was clear he’d surprised her with the question. “What makes you ask?”

He looked out the window at the glow of the moon off the still-falling snow, which he absolutely did not miss in the slightest living in South Carolina. Still, it was a good thing he hadn’t brought the Jeep. “You never…. The way you are with Vanessa. You weren’t like that with Emma.”

“Well, Scott’s been married to Vanessa for ten years,” his mother said, not looking at him. She was scrubbing very intently at the china cup, more than it probably needed. “I didn’t really get to know Emma all that well.”

“It’s okay if you didn’t like her, Mom.”

Suzanne handed him a cup and then studied her son with serious eyes. “I didn’t dislike her, Max. Like I said, I barely knew her. She wasn’t an easy girl to get to know.”

That was true. Max remembered their last conversation—the way she sat so perfectly straight in the chair, dressed to the nines while she coolly and calmly ended their engagement. “I’m sorry, Max. It’s just that we each brought certain expectations into this relationship, and if you can’t keep yours, then I can’t be expected to keep mine.” It was eerily similar to what his agent said when he terminated Max’s contract.

“Vanessa is… well, she’s the perfect match for your brother. She keeps him from being too serious. She adores him and their children….”

“You don’t think Emma adored me?” Max asked. But did he really need to? Someone who adored you didn’t treat your relationship like a business deal.

“I think Emma…. Oh, hell,” she muttered and turned with a raised chin to face Max with just as much attitude as Isaac Drake. “No, Max. I didn’t like her, and I don’t think she adored you in the way someone should adore you. I think she adored the life she expected you to give her.”

Max wished she had said something, but he didn’t mention that. It was all over and done with, and anyway, what would he have said if she tried? “It’s okay. I mean, I realized I wasn’t as sad as I should be when she broke things off. That probably means we didn’t have what Scott and Vanessa have. Or what you and Dad do.”

“I’m sorry, Max,” his mom said, placing a hand on his arm. “I wanted to adore her like I do Vanessa, but it never happened. I’m sorry if that came across. I always hoped that in time I’d come to see whatever it was that made you love her, but when it was over between you two… I admit I was relieved.” She chewed on her lip. “Is that horrible? Are you going to sign up for therapy and talk about how awful I am?”

Max put an arm around her shoulders and drew her in for a brief hug. She smelled like warmth and happiness and home—and kind of like bourbon. “Nah. I mean, don’t you think if I really loved her, I would have missed her more than I did? I was mad at her for taking off, but I think I wasn’t even all that surprised. Mostly I just missed….” Max faltered, unsure what to say.

“You missed getting some?” His mother raised her eyebrows, then snorted. “You’re not fifteen. We can admit you have sex, Max. Do you think your father and I found you and your brother in cabbages?”

“No. But I don’t…. That’s not what I meant,” he mumbled. “I missed having someone around. Y’know? Someone to talk to. I hated selling that house ’cause it was so badass, but I really didn’t want to live there alone.” Well, that sounded pathetic.

His mother didn’t seem to think so. “You’ve always been a bit like me that way. Extroverted. It was one reason why you were always such a good teammate, and I imagine, why your players like you so much. You make people happy.” She smiled. “And people make you happy. And you always see the best in everyone, so that’s why I always thought whatever it was that you loved about Emma, maybe I’d eventually see it.”

Max blushed, though that was nice to hear. His parents had always been generous with praise without overdoing it and critical without being harsh. It was a difficult balance, but one he hoped he’d been able to manage with his own team. “Thanks, Mom.” He’d learned a lot more about relationships from his parents than he realized—and not just romantic ones either.

“You’re welcome.” She slid him a look. “And I know there’s a reason you brought that up. What is it?”

Max’s heart hammered. He set the china cup down on the counter and gripped it with both hands, breathing hard. “I think—no, I know. I’m in love with someone. For real this time. Like you and Dad, or Scott and Vanessa.”

She smiled at him, her eyes misting over, and pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh, honey. With Misha?”

Max blinked at her, stunned. “Um.”

“Max.” She giggled a little and reached out to hug him. “You might not know this, but you couldn’t stop looking at him. The whole time we were there for Thanksgiving. He walked in the room, and your face lit up.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. Max’s face wasn’t so much lit up as it was on fire. He swallowed hard. “Is that… is it okay?”

“I won’t lie and say it’s not a surprise, but of course it’s okay.” She pulled back a little. “Schyler’s feelings are the same as my own, honey. There’s pretty much nothing better than waking up every morning and kissing your best friend.”

Max’s eyes stung, and he was happy in a very simple way for his parents and what they had together—and for his awesome mother, who wasn’t throwing him out for admitting he was in love with a man. Even if he hadn’t told the man in question that just yet.

“At first I was just glad you were friends with him, because that poor boy. He seems so sad, and you can tell it just eats him up, what happened.”

The only thing that saved Max from sinking through the floor in sheer embarrassment was imagining Misha’s face if he were to hear that. “Mom, he’s forty years old. Not a boy.”

“Well.” His mother waved a hand. “It’s all relative. I don’t want you to worry. We liked Misha. And this is… different. But I’ll get used to it.” She smiled and then winked. “And I guess you really do have a thing for blonds.”

“Mom!”

She patted him on the shoulder. “I know. I’m awful. And before you ask…. No. I’m not telling your father or your brother about this. That’s up to you, when you want them to know.”

Max didn’t believe that for a second—at least about her not telling his father—but he gave his mom a hug and rushed out of the kitchen with a mumbled good-night. He was staying in Schyler’s room, and she was bunking with her brothers, much to their dismay, so Max could have a bed. It was a twin bed, sized for a four-year-old girl, but it was better than the old sofa downstairs in the half-finished basement. Or so his brother claimed.

Max changed into pajama pants and a T-shirt, brushed his teeth in the bathroom, and went back to his niece’s room. Like just about every other little girl in America, Schyler was obsessed with
Frozen
and
My Little Pony
, but she also had some
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
as well as a few
Transformers
strewn about—the old cartoon, not the Michael Bay version, thankfully. Sitting on a shelf was a little plushie version of the Habs inexplicable mascot, Youppi!. Max picked it up. He should find his niece something with the Spitfires’ logo on it and send it to her. He also thought about getting Misha a stuffed Youppi! for Christmas, and he laughed out loud.

Speaking of Misha, since Max had some privacy, he sat on the bed, navigated to Misha’s number on his phone, and pressed Call.

“Max,” Misha answered. His warm, low voice made Max half-hard—sort of guilty so, considering he was staring at a poster of an animated snowman.

“Hi,” Max said, settling back on the bed. His feet stuck off the end. By a lot. “So you’ve never had eggnog, huh?”

“No. Should I?”

“Nah. It’s pretty gross. We only have it at Christmas, and we should really just stick to the bourbon. How are you?” There was such a long pause that Max finally had to say, “That good, huh?”

“I am—I don’t know what to say.”

Max huffed and shifted. He wished his niece had some pillows that weren’t edged in frilly lace. “What would you be saying if I were there?”

“To get off the phone.”

Max gave a sharp bark of laughter and looked around guiltily at how loud it was. “I’m sleeping in the smallest bed ever. Seriously. If you were here, there’d be no way you’d fit. We’d have to camp out on the floor. And I don’t know what your feelings are about the movie
Frozen
, but if it offends you, then you definitely wouldn’t want to be in this room.”

“Why would it offend me?”

“Isn’t it set in Russia?” Max asked. “I thought it was ’cause it was all cold and snowy. And, y’know. Frozen.”

“Max,” said Misha. “I think you have had too much of this eggnog. Why are you sleeping in a tiny bed?”

“It’s my niece’s room. She’s four. She told me this evening that it’s okay if I wanted to kiss my best friend, by the way. So you should be glad about that.”

There was another long pause. “I’m your best friend?”

Max tried shoving his toes under the folded, fluffy pink blanket at the end of Schyler’s bed. “No. I meant Belsey. Of course it’s you. Duh. You should have come with me, though, seriously. You’re probably easier to sleep on than this bed.”

Thinking about being on top of Misha gave Max an idea, but he decided a change of location was in order if he were going to proceed. No way was he having phone sex in a four-year-old girl’s room. Ew.

Max had never had phone sex in his life, so adding a completely inappropriate setting was just going to kill the mood. So he told Misha a story about a very long line at the airport as he crept downstairs, through the darkened living room, and down to the house’s lower level. The half-finished part functioned as a playroom and he vaguely remembered the sofa and the old console television from his childhood.

It was dark, quiet, and really cold, so Max climbed on the couch and pulled an ancient afghan over his shoulders and settled down on the couch. It was only slightly longer than his niece’s bed, but at least there weren’t any pink pony pillows or anthropomorphized snowmen staring at him.