Power Play (13 page)

Misha didn’t say anything, but he looked…. Max actually couldn’t figure out what Misha looked like—not sad, not unhappy or angry, but definitely not relaxed or amused. It wasn’t his coach face, but it was something similar. Too similar. Like the night Misha kissed him the first time, when he almost seemed defeated by Max’s refusal to hate him.

“You okay?” Max bumped him with his shoulder. “Is it okay I came back, because I guess I could have asked you.”

“It’s fine. Of course,” Misha said.

Max felt a strange stirring of something very close to irritation and wondered if Misha would ever tell him when something was not fine.

“Misha—”

“Belsey won’t stop the man who is bothering Drake from coming to game,” Misha said. He said it slowly, carefully, but he still dropped the article at the end.

Max felt stupid for thinking that Misha’s distress was about him. He leaned against the counter. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but unless we know the guy’s a threat to Drake… he’s probably…. Ugh. I can’t make the words come out of my mouth.”

Misha stared at the ceiling. “I promised him, Max. That I would make it okay for him to be safe. And it’s a lie.”

“Whoa. Whoa.” Max held up his hands. “You did what you could, and I’m sure Drake will appreciate it.” It wasn’t a very sympathetic thought, but Max occasionally found their drama-prone goalie to be a bit much.

“That is not the point. I am the coach. I need to make sure my players can play.”

“You do,” Max agreed. “But come on. You can’t go around letting them make unreasonable demands either,” he said carefully. “And Misha, I like Drake, but it’s one guy out of a—well, maybe not a thousand, but you know what I mean—in a crowd. Drake really can’t lose focus that easily.” And if he did, God help him if he ever played hockey in Montreal.

Misha looked at him, but there was no hint of censure on his face. “Belsey said he would entertain the request if I could prove to him that the man was a threat to Drake.”

“You could go around him, I suppose,” Max said, uneasy at the thought of Misha getting in trouble. In his opinion, the Spitfires needed Misha way more than they needed Drake.

There was a flash of something like anger in Misha’s eyes, and his mouth tightened into a flat line. “No. I will not do that.”

“Why?” Max asked and peered at him. That was a strange reaction. Usually the thought of undermining Belsey made Misha react in exactly the opposite way.

“It would not be good for the team.” Misha’s tone suggested he was done with the conversation. But he followed it up with “What do I do, Max? You are very good with these things. How do I tell Drake that I cannot do what I promised?”

Max went quiet with momentary surprise at having Misha ask for his opinion. He expected Misha to be mad at him for basically agreeing with Belsey, and he was hesitant to say what he really thought about the situation because he didn’t want them to get in a fight. But maybe he wasn’t giving either of them enough credit. They did start dating after an incident that ended both their careers, didn’t they?

It made Max think about his parents again and how he was starting to figure out that relationships, when they mattered, weren’t supposed to be easy.

“I don’t think you should promise these things in the first place,” Max said bluntly. “I know you had good intentions, but that’s something you can’t control. You could always ask Drake to tell you what exactly is up with this guy, but I wouldn’t. Whatever the reason is, Drake doesn’t want you to know. So honor that and just tell him you tried. Help him figure out a way not to think about it when he’s out on the ice. Find some concentration drills or something for goalies. That kind of thing. Be his hockey coach, Misha. That’s really all you can do.”

Misha was studying him as he spoke and listening intently. “You are a good coach, Max. I wished you had been there when I talked to him. I am not very good at this part.”

“You’re better than you think you are. Definitely with Drake,” Max said with a smile. “But thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Misha suddenly moved up in Max’s space and gave him a gentle push with his hands. “We should go to bed. Yes?”

“Yeah,” Max said, his voice husky. “We definitely should do that.”

In the spirit of speaking his mind, Max waited until they were naked and Misha was fucking him with two fingers to say, “Why don’t you let me do this to you?”

Misha, who was tall enough to finger Max and suck on his neck at the same time, lifted his head. His dark eyes were all pupil, his pale face flushed, and his breath a spill of warmth on Max’s skin. He said something in Russian, shook his head briefly, and repeated it in English. “Why are you asking this now?”

His fingers were still fucking Max, only a little more intensely than before. Max had to arch his back and moan before he could get back to the question. Russians were sneaky. No wonder they won the Cold War.

Wait… did they?

“Because I—fuck. I want to do this. To you. And you said you… liked it, but—Misha, goddamn—you won’t let me. And I want to.”

Misha’s fingers slowed, which was great for Max’s conversational abilities, but not so much for his cock. “Maybe you would not like doing it.”

Max sat up on his elbows. “You have got to stop doing that. No, no. Not
that
, please. Never stop doing
that
. I meant you’ve got to stop trying to make everything safe. For me. For Drake. Maybe I won’t like it, and I’ll tell you. But if it feels this good, and if you moan and start muttering in Russian and grab my hair while I do it? I’m gonna like it. Okay? Da? You copy, comrade?”

Misha narrowed his eyes at him, and fucked him harder with his fingers. “Comrade?”

“Sorry,” Max wheezed, his hips thrusting forward, shamelessly riding Misha’s hand. “I’m not—this is… so good. God, you’re so
good
at this.”

Misha gave him a sinister smile and leaned in to murmur in his ear, “
Podrochi sebe
, Max.” Before Max could ask what that meant, Misha bit gently at his ear and said, “Make yourself come.”

I thought you’d never ask.
With two hard strokes of his cock, Max came. His stomach felt warm and wet, and Misha watched him the whole time with his dark eyes.

It took Max a couple of minutes to recover, breathing hard and reassembling his thoughts into something that had more words and fewer moans. “So, hey,” he panted, shaking slightly from the intensity of his release. “If that’s how it feels to get fucked, then I definitely want you to do that.” He waited for that to sink in and watched in smug pleasure at how Misha’s eyes widened. He liked Misha’s sudden intake of breath too. “But first I want to do this to you.”

Misha appeared speechless for a second, and then he nodded once and lay on his back. “I do like it,” he said very quietly. “And I do want to fuck you.”

Hearing that in Misha’s soft, accented voice made Max shiver. If he hadn’t just come, he might have bossily demanded Misha fuck him right then. Instead he took a few more calming breaths, turned on his side, and traced the tattoos on Misha’s chest.

Max had no idea what he was doing, but he felt like he had enough relevant experience to understand where to start. “Just tell me if it’s not right,” Max said and settled between Misha’s legs.

It didn’t go so well at first. Misha was clearly tense, and he stared at the ceiling like he was getting an extremely uncomfortable physical exam. Max bit him on the thigh and thumped his stomach, because those were not things that happened at physicals outside of Internet porn. “Hey. You said you liked this. Were you lying?”

“No,” Misha said and looked down at him. He sighed. “It’s been a long time. That is all.” He gently slid his fingers through Max’s hair and breathed out slowly, clearly trying to relax.

Max concentrated on making it feel the same for Misha as it did for him, but at first it just seemed like he was seventeen again and trying to get his high school girlfriend off without a clue what he was supposed to be doing. But eventually Max got the hang of it, Misha made a hot noise and bucked against Max’s hand, and everything was great.

When Misha did that to him, Max always found himself wanting to watch but it was too hard to keep his eyes open. Now he was fascinated by the sight of his fingers sliding slick into Misha’s body, and he was so warm inside, so tight, that Max was definitely going to want to fuck him at some point.

Misha sprawled long-limbed and panting on the bed. His breath stuttered and he thrust his hips restlessly. His cock was hard and flush against his stomach. Yeah. That was good. “You do like this,” Max said. He grinned, pleased with himself and the world in general as he tried to angle his wrist perfectly and make Misha lose his mind.

A stream of Russian was his only answer. Max laughed and tried moving his hand forward a little harder. Misha liked it kind of rough in bed, liked Max to bite him and grab his hair, and liked choking on Max’s cock so much it was probably giving Max a complex. It made him feel like a porn star, so hopefully Misha would appreciate some turnabout. His instincts were right, and Misha’s back arched slightly as he moaned when Max began fucking him harder with his hand.

“Since you like this, you’d probably like it if I fucked you too, huh,” Max said cheerfully. He watched as Misha grabbed his dick and came all over his stomach, saying something that Max hoped was yes.

They had both showered and returned to bed. Max was idly flipping through his spy thriller—there was a Russian bad guy, and he was trying to stop himself being alternately attracted to the villain and annoyed by Russian stereotypes—when he remembered what his parents had told him earlier. He placed the book on his chest and turned his head.

“Did you come visit me in the hospital?”

Misha was reading something that appeared to be a coaching book. He wore a pair of reading glasses, and Max wished he’d wear them all the time, because they were sexy as hell. Misha looked at him. “Ah. Yes.”

It was Misha, so a simple answer was all he got. Max stared at him until Misha sighed, closed his book, and then took off the glasses.
Damn it.
“I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“My parents saw you,” he explained. “And that meant you walked in without a clever disguise, Misha. Dumb idea, dude. It was Montreal, and you’d taken out a Hab.” Max held up his hand. “Don’t brood or I will insist on cooking something tomorrow. Think of your kitchen.”

Misha’s lashes veiled his gaze for a moment, but he nodded. “I did not…. I was not thinking straight. I just wanted to see you.”

“You had the hots for me, even then,” Max teased, put his own book on the table, and rolled over. “Admit it.”

Misha didn’t look amused. “Why do you insist on making jokes about the worst thing that happened to you?”

“I don’t know,” Max said. He wanted to pick up the book and hit him. “Maybe because I’m over it?”

Misha stared at him. “I will never understand you.”

“Well, I’ll never understand you either. At least we’ll never get bored.” Max leaned over and kissed him. Firmly. “Stop angsting. Okay? My parents just mentioned it, and you never said anything. Not that I’m surprised. According to movies and books, I have to put you in a death trap to make you talk.”

Misha’s expression didn’t change, but he said, “I’m too tall to fit in your Jeep,” and Max huffed a laugh and turned out the light.

THE NEXT
time Misha thought his house was too big, he’d remember hosting an entire hockey team for an American holiday he didn’t celebrate, featuring, as a centerpiece, something he didn’t eat.

Not that turkey was the only option. There was so much food in his kitchen, Misha could barely see the countertops. Every available inch of space was taken up by dishes of some kind or plastic containers. Apparently every single Spitfires player had been ordered by family members to bring something to dinner. Including the non-Americans.

It was an interesting spread. Turkey, pirozhki, something with green beans and crunchy fried things on top of them that Suzanne Ashford made, cucumber salad, and plastic containers of cookies. It was overwhelming.

“It looks like Piggly Wiggly threw up in here,” Isaac Drake said.

“It is a grocery store,” Misha clarified, when Suzanne glanced at him questioningly. He gave Drake a sharp look. “This is Coach Ashford’s mother. Behave yourself.”

“’Course, Coach.” Drake grinned. He was one of the few players who were more at ease with Misha than Max. Which didn’t help assuage Misha’s guilt over not being able to keep his promise. But Drake seemed cheerful enough for the moment, and Misha refused to ruin the young man’s holiday by discussing an unpleasant subject.

Having the team in his house was loud and crowded, but Misha found he didn’t really mind that much. It wasn’t something he’d want to repeat on a weekly or monthly basis—twice a year would probably be good enough—but it reminded him of crowded family gatherings at home. And not in a bad way either, which meant it was one of the few memories of his childhood that he didn’t automatically want to repress.

Misha immediately sought out Max with his eyes and found him standing with his father and a few of the Spitfires. Max had a beer, was wearing his usual jeans and a casual sweater, and looked perfectly relaxed. At home, even.

Max caught his eye across the room and grinned. He lifted his beer. Misha smiled slightly in response.

“I just saw Coach Samarin smile,” Matt Huxley told Drake, shoving a cookie in his mouth.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Drake said.

“Do you say that to all the guys who suck your—hey!” Shawn Murphy squeaked, when Drake whapped him upside the head with a serving spoon.

“Can you behave, dude? Seriously. There are like, parents and shit here. Go wash this,” he ordered, handing over the utensil. “Since I don’t know when the last time was you washed your hair.”

Murph muttered but went off to the sink, after a glance at a girl who was giggling—presumably his girlfriend—proved there would be no help from that quarter.