Power Play (8 page)

“Wow. It’d be better if you said yes and just kissed me. It would improve your chances of getting laid later. That’s what I’m saying.”

Misha kissed him with his hands on Max’s shoulders to keep him pinned to the door. Anger on Max’s behalf burned through him like a wick catching fire. It felt good.

Though that might also have had something to do with how hard Max was and the fact he was already pushing his hips forward. As if they were alone in a hotel room. As if they could do that here.

Misha pulled away. They were both breathing hard. Max spoke first, of course. Indomitable was a good word for Max. “This doesn’t seem like such a bad idea after all, when it means we get to make out after meetings with Belsey.” He grinned. His mouth was red, and his clothes were slightly askew from being manhandled.

It was a good look on him.
I want to fuck him. Here. Against the door. Over my desk. Everywhere.

Max’s grin turned sly. “You seriously have no idea how hot the look you’re giving me right now is.”

If it was in any way as hot as the way Max was looking at
him
—like he wanted to be devoured—Misha had some idea. He pulled back and tried to make himself look presentable. “Come to my house,” he said as he idly smoothed his tie. “Tonight. I will make you dinner.”

Max reached out and poked him lightly on the shoulder. “I think it’s going to be a problem if this is what happens when Belsey makes you mad. ’Cause I’m gonna want him to do it all the time.”

Misha smiled at him. With teeth. “Seven o’clock. Ask your Google Maps how to get there so you’re not late.”

MISHA BOUGHT
a house in Spartanburg when he signed his three-year contract with the Spitfires, because it seemed to make more sense than renting. He had played professional hockey for twenty years, and while he didn’t make as much money as some, he made enough. He invested wisely and he had no dependents and very few bills. It made sense to have a place of his own, even if he thought it was way too big for him.

The house appealed to him because it looked so quintessentially American. The realtor called it “arts and crafts style,” but Misha didn’t understand what that meant. It looked to him like a house in a storybook, where maybe three bears or a witch might live, with dormer windows and pitched roof. It had hardwood floors and a new kitchen, which was good because Misha liked to cook.

With three bedrooms and two and a half baths, it was an absurd amount of house for one person. He would never understand this very American need to have so many rooms, and it made him feel vaguely wasteful not to have a purpose for all of the space. There was also a loft room upstairs with its own bath. It could be a guest room—if Misha ever had any guests.

But he was having a guest for dinner, so maybe he was wrong. But if Max spent the night, Misha did not want him to sleep upstairs. And Max wouldn’t want to either, considering there was nothing in there but a few boxes.

Misha made pirozhki with mushrooms, onions, and rice. He’d been in America long enough to gain an appreciation for easy-to-make foods—spaghetti, for example—but that was one Russian dish he’d been making since he first had to cook for himself. It was his mother’s recipe or maybe he just made it up.

Max arrived exactly at seven, no doubt conditioned to arrive on time by years of playing hockey. He was dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt that was a shade too tight. Misha appreciated how it showed off Max’s physique, and he wondered if that was why Max had chosen to wear it.

“Hi,” Max said, handing Misha a bottle. “I brought you this.”

It was vodka. Smirnoff. Misha had a lot to teach Max, and not all of it was about coaching. Apparently he would have to add
vodka
to the list. “Thank you,” he said, too polite to say anything else. He could always cook with it. “Come in, please.”

Max did so and glanced around with unabashed curiosity. “This is not what I thought your house would look like, Misha.”

Misha went to put the Smirnoff away in the kitchen, and Max followed at a slower pace, still looking around at the house, taking in the sleek, contemporary leather furniture, the dark hardwood floors, the cool, trendy gray color of the walls and their crisp white crown molding. “What did you think it would look like?”

“I don’t know,” Max said. He shook his head with a laugh and hopped up on a barstool at the island. He immediately looked comfortable in a way that Misha found astounding. Misha had been in the country for years, but he had not, for the most part, made friends with Americans. It was hard to imagine how he managed not to, given how friendly they were. “Did you buy this place, or are you renting?”

“I bought it,” Misha said, a touch defensively. “It was a good investment.” He opened the freezer and took out a bottle of good vodka—the kind they did not sell in the gas station. He found two glasses, poured them both a drink, and pushed Max’s toward him.

Max raised his eyebrows. “You aren’t going to put any sweet and sour mix in it and make me a Kamikaze?” He laughed at the look of horror Misha couldn’t quite hide. “I’m kidding. Also it’s really sweet that you’re not mentioning I brought over the Bud Light of your country’s sacred booze.”

Misha felt his ears turn red, and he hid a smile in his glass as he took a shot of the vodka. “Is this an American custom? Hmm? Bring a gift that insults your host and see if he notices?”

“Duh. We’re dicks.” Max winked at him. “Charming, though. At least that’s what the world thinks about Americans. Or that’s what they thought in Montreal, anyway.”

Misha couldn’t help but look away, though he knew he shouldn’t. He knew Max did not like him to dwell on their past.

“Misha—”

“I know that you forgive me,” Misha said, interrupting him before he got the “just let it go and be cool” lecture. “And I know that it was an accident. But I cannot forget it happened. I am still sorry that it did. It was me that knocked you to the ice. And yes, Max. That makes me feel bad. And maybe it always will. But I do not think it does either of us any good to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Max looked briefly abashed. “Probably not. I just…. You can’t know what life has in store for you, Misha. I got to play three years in the most insane, hockey-crazed city in the world. With batshit crazy fans who bleed the
rouge, blanc et bleu
. And now I’m here. So no. I don’t need to forget it, but I don’t think it does either of us any good to dwell on it either.”

Misha stared at him, unsure how to respond to Max’s perpetual optimism. He settled on “Your French accent is atrocious.”

“Fuck off,” Max laughed. “God, I’m awful at languages. Just as bad as I am at geography. See, you can look at it that way. At least you saved me from having to learn more French.” Max gave an exaggerated sigh. “Stop brooding. Is that what you invited me over to do?”

“No. But then you showed up with bad vodka.” Misha kept his face expressionless. “Old Russian maxim. Plans change depending on liquor.”

“Uh-huh.” Max grinned. “You’re hilarious, Samarin. What’s for dinner and can I help with anything?”

Misha shook his head. “No. It is all right. I invited you. That means I will cook.”

“Old Russian maxim?” Max took another sip of his vodka. “This is good. Without the sweet and sour even.”

Misha didn’t dignify that with a response. He poured them both more vodka and went back to the pirozhki. They spoke idly about the team, about Belsey, and even made suggestions for fight-themed songs they could use for a theoretical bench-brawl commercial.

The pirozhki were in the oven, and Misha was taking a drink when Max asked, “So, did you leave Russia because you’re gay?”

Misha dropped the glass on the countertop. It didn’t break, but it rolled dangerously toward the edge before Misha caught it. He took a towel and carefully mopped up the spill.

“Umm,” Max said, clearing his throat. “That was… was that just, like, ironic that you dropped that glass right then?”

“Why… why would you say that?” Misha asked, still not looking at him. He could feel sweat beading on his brow as his stomach twisted unpleasantly. He resisted the urge to suck the alcohol off the paper towel, and threw it away instead.

“Well, umm. ’Cause of what we’re doing? And you know,” Max continued, oblivious to Misha’s internal struggle. “Because you were so good at it.”

That wasn’t at all what Misha expected him to say. He turned around, his brows drawn. “That is why you think I am gay?”

“Well, I mean,” Max hedged. “I just figured gay guys were probably better than other guys at stuff involving dicks. Better than, say, bisexual bartenders in Mexico.” Max’s face was bright red. “All that practice.”

Misha laughed. Max thought Misha was gay because he was good at sucking cock. No other reason. Something as warm as vodka burned through Misha. It settled his stomach and cooled the sweat on his brow. “Yes. I left Russia because I am gay.”

Max just nodded. “Yeah. You said it was illegal there.”

Max had no idea that Misha had never admitted out loud that he was gay. Not even to himself. He had hinted and talked around it. But he had never given the words a chance to echo, to be heard and remembered.

“Yes. It’s illegal,” Misha said, still too caught up in the enormity of the moment to say much more. And what was there to say, really? He was gay and he’d been that way his whole life, and it wasn’t something that went away just because he wanted it to. It was a thing he kept hidden, secret. It had almost cost him his life. But that was years before, in a different country. His fear had eased, but he’d never been comfortable with it. Not really.

“I’d want to leave too,” Max said simply.

I left because my father threatened to gut me like a stuck pig.
He would not say that to Max. Max had had enough of Misha’s darkness for a lifetime. Certainly for the evening.

“I thought I was straight,” Max said, bringing Misha’s attention back to him. “And then I went on this trip to Mexico. Right? It was supposed to be my honeymoon, but since that didn’t happen, I just went with some friends. And when I was there, I got drunk and blew the bartender. His name was Javier.”

As far as confessions went, Misha enjoyed that one a lot more than his own. The image of Max, sweat-soaked and tan from the sun, on his knees on a sultry beach, sucking off a man he hardly knew.

“I did it, like, four times. And once his friends were there. I blew them too.” Max looked at Misha, not embarrassed as much as curious. “And there’s you. So. I don’t know if that’s enough cocksucking to make me good at this yet or not.” He gave Misha a hopeful smile. “But I figure if you give me some more lessons, I’ll catch up pretty quick.” He winked.

Misha set his glass on the counter, walked around to Max, and leaned in to kiss him. It was a slow, heated kiss and it didn’t feel as urgent as it did earlier in his office. He felt no guilt and he wanted to take his time and enjoy it. He could feel Max slide his hand almost shyly across his stomach, but Max kissed back without hesitation—as eager and open with that as he was with anything else.

“You’re not going to make another head coach joke, are you?” Misha asked when they moved apart. He wanted to forget about dinner and take Max to bed. The thought of having Max naked, spread out in Misha’s bed, which was actually big enough for the both of them, unlike the one in the Super 8—was as intoxicating as the vodka.

“Who said I was joking?” Max’s voice was caught and heavy and rough with desire. Misha once again couldn’t quite believe it was happening—that someone like Max wanted anything to do with him, especially after the accident that brought them together.

Max liked the pirozhki, which he called pierogies, and he told Misha a funny story about his attempts to cook when he was in college. Afterward he insisted on helping with the dishes, though he wasn’t all that helpful, since his closeness drove Misha crazy with want.

When they were done doing the few dishes, the tension began to grow at a noticeable rate. Max had proven himself capable of initiating things, even if he wasn’t as experienced. Misha wasn’t surprised when Max pushed him gently against the fridge and settled himself against Misha.

“You feel really good,” Max said, staring up at him. His pupils were already dilated.

Misha wasn’t promiscuous, but he certainly hadn’t lived like a saint. Granted, he was in the habit of paying for sex, but even when he wasn’t, even when it was supposed to be about mutual want… it was never quite like it was with Max. No one had ever wanted him as much as Max.

“So do you,” he said and leaned in to mouth at Max’s neck. “Do you want to go to bed?”

“Fuck. You’re so good at this,” Max told him. Before Misha could say anything, Max grabbed his face in both hands and pulled him in to kiss him with exuberance. “Hell yes. I want to go to bed. That’s what I was hoping you meant when you invited me over for dinner.” He paused. “Not that I didn’t like the pierogies.”

When they were in Misha’s bedroom, Max gave a low whistle at the size of Misha’s bed. “King-size, eh? Nice choice.”

“I’m too tall for the other ones,” Misha said.

Max must have noticed his defensiveness, because he peered at Misha and asked, “Why do you do that? Is it a Russian thing?”

“Wanting a bed that I can fit on?” Misha wished Max would go back to kissing and less talking.

“Ha-ha,” Max said, even though Misha wasn’t joking. “I mean, how you told me the house was a good investment, and the bed fits you.”

“Those things are true,” Misha answered, slowly, confused.

“Yeah, but like… dude.” Max laughed. “I had a house with six bedrooms, five-and-a-half bathrooms, and a theater room. My fiancée and I did, I mean. No way did I need all that room. I just wanted it.” His face flushed. “Which is kind of embarrassing to admit, but…. You can spend your money on shit just because you want it, you know.”

“And you can want things for practical reasons,” Misha said, though Max being in his bedroom was proof that Misha was learning to want things that were impractical.

Max shrugged again, as easily as ever. “Probably just one of those differences between our cultures,” he joked. “So, what—”