Power Play (7 page)

Max was so concerned about making it good, about not making it clear that “I’ve done this before” amounted to less than a handful of times, that he didn’t realize what he was saying until Misha went still and tense.

It took Max a few seconds of running the moment backward to figure out what he’d done. “Misha. Stop being so….” Max waved a hand. “Russian. Unless you could be more Russian, like Alexander Ovechkin. He’s… well, crazy but enthusiastic.”

Misha blinked and then said, “Not if it means starring in a bad Russian rap video.” Then he leaned down to kiss him before Max could ask if there were any other kind.

Misha didn’t kiss like anyone Max had ever kissed before. Just like that night in his apartment, Misha kissed like he was starving, and it was so hot that Max’s knees were weak by the time they broke apart to breathe. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Well,” Max deadpanned, “it’s close. If we were on the bed and there were blowjobs, it’d be a lot closer.”

Misha sighed and rested his forehead briefly against Max’s. “This is a bad idea. Very bad. We should not do this.”

“Then we can stop. But could we decide one way or another, right now?” Max looked at Misha with what he knew was a pained expression. “I’m gonna get pissed off if your cock is in my mouth and you change your mind.”

Max was close enough that he could hear Misha’s sharp indrawn breath, and he didn’t think Misha was going to stop him. “I won’t change my mind that this is a bad idea.” Misha’s hands slid down to Max’s hips and pulled him closer.

“But we’re doing it anyway?” Max asked hopefully, his mouth dry. He’d never wanted to touch someone as badly as he wanted to touch Misha.

“Apparently,” said Misha, and he pulled him in to kiss him again. Max could feel through the pajamas that Misha was hard, and that made Max almost whimper as he pressed up against that stiffness with his own and rubbed against him.

Misha made a hungry sound and pulled him backward. The next thing Max knew, they were tangled up on the bed and kissing hotly.

“You’ve done this before too. Right?” Max asked, though he wasn’t sure why it mattered.

“Yes, Max. I’ve done it before.” There was something sad in Misha’s expression, but Max chased it away when he decided he was over Russian angst and way more into Russian aggressiveness and tattoos. He pushed Misha back to kiss him while he straddled him on the bed.

If Misha laughed at Max’s tattoos when he pulled Max’s shirt off, Max didn’t hear because he was too busy being turned on at how Misha’s hands felt on him—hot and the right kind of rough, impatient, and clearly wanting all of him
now, faster, harder
.

“I want—” Max broke away from Misha’s mouth and almost moaned at the look on Misha’s face—the flush on his cheekbones and the way his eyes were so incredibly dark. “Fuck,” he said. He forgot what he was saying. He forgot everything.

Max had always liked sex, but he never knew how desperate he could be for it. Not even at his teenage, hormone-driven worst had it ever felt so urgent. “Can I suck you? Please say yes.”

Misha made a noise and said something in Russian. Before Max could ask what he said, Misha tangled his hand in Max’s hair, roughly pushed Max’s head down, and Max almost came in his jeans.

He easily went where Misha was directing him, although he was distracted by the tattoos on Misha’s stomach and stopped to bite at the corded muscles there. “I don’t know what you just said, but I hope it means
yes
.”

Misha tightened his hand in Max’s hair and pulled at his pajama pants. “It was ‘Yes. You can suck me. I want you to,’” Misha brought his other hand up and rubbed his thumb over Max’s bottom lip.

Max responded by taking Misha’s cock in his hand and opening his mouth.

The first time Max gave a blowjob was in Mexico, but he’d thought about it before that. You didn’t just down a few mojitos and change your sexuality. No way were the drinks at an all-inclusive resort
that
potent. And as good as it was, it wasn’t like he imagined.

But sucking Misha’s cock—yeah, that was what he wanted from giving a blowjob. Misha muttered and moved beneath him. He pushed like he couldn’t stop himself, and his hand was in Max’s hair—too tight and almost painful. Max choked a few times, and easily, because Misha was a tall man and appropriately well-endowed. But apparently both of them liked that, because Misha moaned louder and his words were more Russian and less English. And Max’s eyes watered, but he couldn’t have cared less.

Misha said something in Russian and did that thing with his thumb again, rubbing it over Max’s bottom lip. Max slid his mouth down lower and rubbed his hand over Misha’s balls, trying as hard as he could to make it as good as possible.

For once I want to make you feel good, not guilty.

Now who was being angsty? Max gave himself a mental talking-to and shut out his obnoxious inner voice. Instead he concentrated on how Misha felt and how he looked as he came apart beneath Max’s hands and Max’s mouth.

“You—it’s good, Max. Don’t stop,” Misha panted, and that was, just possibly, the hottest thing anyone had ever said to Max in bed.

It wasn’t long before Misha gave a low moan and tensed, his thighs shaking, and tugged at Max’s hair like he was trying to pull Max off his cock.

Max had no intentions of doing anything but finishing, and he’d done that before, too, though admittedly the memory was a little hazy. He would remember this, though—the way Misha grabbed his head with both hands, his thighs tensing as his stomach muscles went taut, his hips snapped forward, and he came hard in Max’s mouth.

Max sat up and felt a little smug as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He liked how out of it Misha looked, the way he threw one arm over his eyes and tried to catch his breath.

“See. I told you I’d done it before,” Max said. He gave Misha’s long, lean form a thoroughly appreciative once-over. He really wanted to know what all the tattoos said, but his cock was hard as a rock, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to take the time to find out.

Misha dropped his arm and then reached out and tugged at Max’s hair. “Come here.”

Max went.

Misha kissed him, which Max didn’t expect, considering what he’d just done. But he kissed back enthusiastically, and when Misha pushed him onto his back, Max went easily and put his hands behind his head.

The easy way Misha took off his jeans should have been his first clue that he was about to be totally outclassed. Because there was no question—no contest—that Max’s limited experience had absolutely nothing on Misha. Misha was really good at sucking cock. In a way that told Max that yes, Misha had done it before. A lot.

Misha did things Max didn’t know were possible. He used his tongue, his hand, his mouth, and even his
teeth
. Max was so blown away that he couldn’t think. He couldn’t do anything but flail around and moan a lot. He started and stopped sentences like, “
Yes
,
that’s
—” and “
God
,
that’s so
—
you’re
—
yes
,
oh
—” Then he descended into incoherent moaning and came so hard he thought he saw stars behind his eyes.

Afterward when Max had enough brainpower to remember things like blinking and breathing and talking, Misha gave him the world’s smuggest smile, and Max said, “Yeah. Fine. You deserve that. That’s why you’re the
head
coach, huh?”

Misha smacked him on the stomach and groaned.

“SO TELL
me, gentlemen,” Belsey said. “What song should I use for the commercial featuring our new highlights? ‘Eye of the Tiger’? ‘One Night in Bangkok’?”

“How about Tupac’s ‘Hit ’Em Up’?” Max suggested. He cleared his throat. “I’m just wondering why you’re so determined to use songs from the 80’s when there’s so many other decades to choose from. Also why the song about Bangkok? Toledo is in Ohio, not China.”

Misha stood quietly and tried not to wince at Max’s forwardness and his clear lack of knowledge when it came to world geography.

“Ashford, either shut up or get out of my office,” Belsey snapped. “And go listen to the song. It’s got that whole thing about tough men taking a tumble.”

Misha felt his neck turn hot and very studiously avoided looking at Max. He could hear Max make a noise that sounded like an hysterical laugh hidden in a very nonconvincing cough, but Belsey had run out of patience. He glared at Misha and didn’t notice. “You know, if you hadn’t won every single game on the road trip after that farce of a bench brawl, I’d have fired you both.”

Misha nodded, but he didn’t believe it. Belsey was fond of saying things like “I could fire you both.” But he didn’t want to test the theory, and he hoped Max would stay quiet while Belsey addressed him. Belsey didn’t seem to be in the mood for Max’s clever tongue.

Of course Belsey didn’t know quite how clever Max’s tongue could be. That Misha did was not something he should be thinking about. Tough men taking a tumble indeed. Misha wondered if Belsey knew that song was from a musical about chess. Somehow he doubted it.

“You wanted something new for the highlights,” Misha said. “We gave you wins. Some goals. Flashy saves. Yes?”

“Sure. Yeah.” Belsey waved a hand and his obnoxious gold watch caught the afternoon sunlight. Misha doubted that Belsey really understood hockey. What had made him buy a team and think he could manage it? “We still have a losing record.”

Belsey never failed to set Misha’s teeth on edge. “We have more games to play,” he pointed out. Maybe that was a disrespectful thing to say. Certainly it would be if he were at home in Russia. But he wasn’t in Russia, and maybe America had rubbed off on him more than he thought.

That of course made him think of Max again—that hotel room, the second time, Max sprawled naked on top of him, kissing and grinding until they both came, and Max licking his tattoos while Misha tried to remember in English what they meant so he could tell him.

“Samarin? Did you hear what I just said?” Belsey gave an exaggerated sigh. “For fuck’s sake, does anyone ever listen to me?”

When you say things that are worth hearing, maybe we’ll start.
“Yes?”

“I will admit that your little stunt in Toledo coincided with an increase in ticket sales once word got out. Goddamn YouTube.” Belsey drummed his fingers on the desk. He wore too many rings for a man. It made Misha think unpleasantly of his father. “Don’t get me wrong. It was minute. As in tiny,” he said, and that last part he addressed not to Misha, but to Max. As if maybe Max didn’t know what that word meant.

Belsey thinks Max is stupid.
Misha felt a hot rush of anger, but it wasn’t as though Max would be all that offended. Max was the first person to admit he wasn’t that book smart and that he’d get lost getting to the arena if it weren’t for Google Maps.

“But there was an increase. So that’s something. And I know you’re going to get all fucking huffy and say that it’s because you won some games, blah blah blah. And maybe you’re right. Only one way to find out. Win some more. Now get out of my office. I have a meeting with the marketing intern.”

They had a marketing intern? That was new.

“Does this mean,” Max asked him, a few minutes later, “that if we do win games and don’t sell more tickets, he’ll tell us to make the guys get in fights with the other team’s bench?”

Misha groaned inwardly. That was a distinct possibility.

“And I like how he doesn’t think I know what minute means,” Max huffed. “I’m not a genius, but give me a break.”

“He’s an idiot,” Misha said with a bit more vitriol than was warranted. “And he knows nothing about hockey.” He didn’t know if that was true, because Belsey seemed less interested in the actual sport and more in revenue. Which would be fine if he weren’t trying to manage the team instead of just owning it.

Max blinked, obviously taken aback at Misha’s uncharacteristic display of emotion. “You really don’t like the guy, huh? Is it ’cause of that commercial? I mean, that’d be enough for me to not like him.”

It’s because he hired you not to be a coach, but a sideshow. And he does not respect you, because he does not think you are anything more than a four-second clip on YouTube.
Because that was the truth of it. Wasn’t it? Misha was hired because of the accident, maybe, but he’d been coaching for several years and had a career that spanned two decades.

Max had a three-year stint in the majors and a year on the coaching staff at Duluth. He had experience, but if Misha hadn’t been hired, would Max have been?

Was it always going to be that way—with one of their careers at the mercy of the other?

Misha turned suddenly and grabbed Max’s arm. He strode purposefully through the locker room to his office, unceremoniously pulled Max inside, and slammed the door. Then he pushed Max up against it and resisted the very strong urge to kiss him.

“Listen to me,” Misha said. He stared down into Max’s wide, green eyes. “We are going to make this team win. Not for Belsey, but for us.”
You’re going to have a career if it kills me.
Max wanted to be a hockey coach, so Misha would make sure he was one. Belsey probably intended to fire Max after the season if it didn’t go well. Misha would not allow another opportunity to pass Max Ashford by. Not again.

“Okay,” Max said very slowly. “Wow. You just went all intense on me. Uh. Is there a reason?”

Yes. You think the best of everyone and you shouldn’t. Not always. Sometimes there are reasons to hate people. Sometimes they really don’t have your best interests at heart.

“I’m tired of worrying what he is going to do. We can’t think about him.” That was close enough to the truth. “We have a hockey team to coach. That is all we should concentrate on.”

“I like how you’re telling me this as if I don’t agree with you,” Max said. He hooked a finger around Misha’s tie and tugged him in. “You brought me here to make out, didn’t you?”

Misha needed a moment to parse that. “Why would I do that?”