Power Play (18 page)

He was gone the next day, before Misha could ask him what happened or reprimand him for his poor alcohol etiquette. But whatever was going on between Drake and Jakob, it was clearly causing an issue in the locker room, and that was not acceptable.

“You guys want to let me and Coach Samarin in on the problem, or should we all stand around and look at each other some more? Don’t know about you guys, but I’m hungry.”

Max’s voice was warm enough to show he wasn’t angry, but firm enough to let them know he was serious. He was very good at that sort of thing, and Misha was relieved he was there to handle it. His approach would have been to stare at Jakob and Drake until they left, which would have solved nothing.

“Jakob has a fucking problem with queers,” said Drake, and Misha felt his heart slam down into his stomach like a puck hitting hard in an empty net. Drake, his hair cut—and freshly colored blue—glared at Jakob across the locker room.

Huxley groaned. “Fuck. What? Really? Jakob, man. Do not get Drake started on this, dude. We’ll never get out of here, and I want some dinner.”

Misha tried and failed to find his words. All he could think about was the argument at Christmas that he had not witnessed, Max’s things in his house that Misha had not bothered to hide, and how clearly Jakob had learned that their coach was gay and—

“Why would you be discussing this in the locker room?” Max asked, sounding completely reasonable, as if he had not been fucked, and quite thoroughly so, by the head coach mere hours before over the head coach’s desk in his office. “Every single one of you knows I don’t tolerate bullying of any kind, in here or on the ice. Neither does Coach Samarin.”

“Tell fucking Jakob that,” Drake growled. “Fucking Polish prick.”

“We don’t bully because people are from other—countries?” Max looked briefly at Misha, who nodded imperceptibly. He found Max’s complete lack of understanding about world geography both exasperating and endearing. “Yeah. So knock it off, Drake. You can’t get respect from people if they don’t respect you.”

Misha saw it the moment it happened, the moment Isaac Drake lost some of that inner fire that kept him going through whatever personal tragedies he faced in his mind every day on the ice. “Never mind,” Drake muttered, his shoulders hunched.

Max had said the wrong thing, and he and Misha both knew it. But Max was the epitome of indomitable, and he never gave up. “Drake, let’s go talk about this in the office. Just the two of us. Okay?”

Misha winced before Max finished talking, because he knew that it was the wrong thing to say, even though he couldn’t say why, exactly. Drake spared a glance at Misha, and he looked like a helpless animal—something wild caught in a trap and terrified at suddenly finding itself in a cage.

“I think we should make this clear,” Misha said, though he wanted to do nothing more than let Max handle it. “This is a locker room. We play hockey as a team. Yes? What you do outside with other people, it does not matter.”

Jakob said something in Polish, perhaps unaware that Misha had picked up some Polish on his travels. He resisted the urge to cuff the younger man hard on the side of the head and ignored him.

“Also, like, dude,” Shawn Murphy said, from somewhere behind Misha. “Everyone in the fucking ECHL knows Drake’s gay. And fuck you if you have a problem with it, because no one here does. So go join another fucking team. But good luck, because guess what, asshole? Gay people play hockey. Go the fuck back to Russia.”

“Poland,” Jakob bit out.

“Whatever,” said Murphy.

Maybe it wasn’t a secret that Drake was gay, but Misha hadn’t known, and it was clear from Max’s expression he hadn’t either.

“That is enough,” Misha said coldly. “Drake is your teammate and your captain, Jakob. That is all that matters in this locker room. My office. Now. The rest of you, get your skates on. Coach Ashford, lead the team in a bag skate until we are done here.”

There was a hissing rumble of discontent as Misha consigned the already-tired team to the worst of all skating drills. If nothing else, it would at least focus all the team’s ire on Misha instead of giving the team a reason to hate one or both of their teammates.

Max gave Misha a look that said, “Are you serious?” But Misha knew Max respected him and would do what he said. Max blew his whistle a bit too loudly. “You heard Coach. Get out there.” In a show of solidarity that would make him popular with the team and ensure Misha was giving him blowjobs every morning in the shower for a week, Max laced up his own skates.

Misha took Jakob into his office, listened for two minutes as the kid stammered out something about religion and wrong and whatever-else nonsense. Then, in a cold voice, he said, “It does not matter. You will do your job or you will go home. This is your only choice. You either go put your skates on and do the drills with your teammates, or you leave this building and you never come back.”

He held up a hand. “You may go and tell Belsey if you want. But Belsey is not the coach. I am. You can think what you want, but you
will
keep it to yourself.”

Jakob did look just the slightest bit abashed, making Misha wonder if there was something else wrong that had nothing to do with Drake. If Drake’s sexuality was known to the team, it was hard to believe that Jakob had just developed a problem with it.

Misha thought carefully. Of course he did not support Jakob’s views on homosexuality, and he would not allow anyone to be bullied or belittled for it on his team. But he did understand being a young man who was a stranger in a foreign country, and so he switched to Polish—also so his player would know he understood the language. “I know it is hard to be here. This country is not like what we are used to. It is like, sometimes having everything you know taken away at once. They do not tell you that the way you think is wrong, that the way you live is wrong, but the way they think, the way they live…. It seems as if that is what they are doing.”

Jakob’s eyes were wide. He nodded. “Sometimes. Yes.”

“Drake is gay. It has nothing to do with you. I will not have a locker room where someone is ashamed or feels they need to hide because of what they are. If you do not feel comfortable here, it is not because of who Drake chooses to spend his time with away from the ice. But I cannot help you if you insist that it is. Do you understand?”

Jakob, to his credit, didn’t just agree right away. “I will try,” he said. “I feel stupid. That I did not know and everyone else did.”

Misha hadn’t known either, but he didn’t say that. “It has nothing to do with this team, Jakob. That is what I am trying to tell you. Now put on your skates, join your teammates, and apologize to your captain. And keep your opinions to yourself. Is that clear?”

Jakob didn’t look all too happy, but he nodded and left to put on his skates.

Misha waited for a few minutes and then went out to the rink. He got death glares from every single player, and that was good. He also saw Jakob dry heaving, and Drake checking on him. They were probably plotting Misha’s death. Also a good sign.

Misha blew his whistle, ignoring his sweaty, bright-eyed, very attractive, and
furious
assistant coach, who was probably going to torture him to death later in bed. Misha held back an evil smile and said, “Remember this the next time you think the answer to personal problems is to be dramatic in locker rooms.”

“Fucking Russians. No wonder they’re always the bad guys,” Shawn Murphy wheezed as he went past Misha.

Misha let that one go.

“Yeah,” Max said, still breathing hard. “Fucking Russians.”

Misha caught his eye and winked when he was sure no one could see.

THE WEEK
they played the Jacksonville Sea Storm at home, Isaac Drake stopped showing up to practice. When game day came around and there was still no sign of their blue-haired, angry young captain, Misha told Belsey that Drake had a family emergency and started Lathrop in net.

The game wasn’t the one-sided affair it had been earlier that season. The Spitfires held their own but still lost, 4-2, and it was clear the team was disappointed. They were also confused because their goalie wasn’t there, and Misha knew they all thought they might have won if Drake hadn’t vanished. Lathrop felt terrible about the game, and it made for a quiet locker room after it was over.

Drake was still a no-show the following week at practice. That’s when Huxley and Murphy asked to speak to Misha in his office, clearly worried. They wanted to convince Misha not to kick Drake off the team. They thought something was wrong.

“He hasn’t been home in days, Coach,” Huxley said, shuffling his feet nervously in front of Misha’s desk. “This guy showed up at our apartment before the Jacksonville game looking for him, and when I told Drake, he flipped the fuck out.”

“I still can’t believe he missed the game against the Storm. He was so fucking ready for that, man. I mean, Coach,” Murph amended quickly. “He also wants to bang Hunter—the Storm’s goalie—’cause he’s bi. Hunter, I mean. Drake’s just regular gay.”

“Would you shut up?” Huxley glared at his friend. “Coach doesn’t want to hear that shit.”

“Remember what Drake said, though? That we shouldn’t not talk about him macking on dudes just ’cause they were dudes instead of chicks?”

“He didn’t mean to talk about him macking on dudes in front of Coach, moron.” Hux hit Murph in the arm. “And Hunter has a boyfriend. Remember? I fought him last year. Ethan Kennedy.”

Misha cleared his throat. “Is the man who showed up looking for Drake a boyfriend of his?” He felt strange using the word boyfriend, even when it came to Max. He felt a thousand years older than his players on a good day, and the word seemed so juvenile.

“No way,” Hux replied confidently. “This guy was, like, sweaty and creepy. That’s totally not Drake’s type.”

“He likes ’em pretty,” Murph piped up. “Like Hunter. Or Coach Ashford.”

“Dude,” Hux said. He glared. “Seriously?”

Murphy looked nervously at Huxley and then apparently decided to be quiet.

“We’re worried about him,” Hux continued as Misha digested the information that Drake had a crush on Max. At least their goalie had good taste. “And he loves this team, Coach. I’ve never seen him so fired up about winning before. I know he wouldn’t do anything to fuck up his career, so something’s gotta be going on.”

“Do you have any idea where Drake is?” Misha asked. “Could he have gone to visit family?”

“Yeah. No,” Huxley said, shaking his head. “They threw him out when he was seventeen for being gay.”

“And you’re sure he’s not seeing anyone?”

“He was kinda seeing this guy in Asheville last year for a hot minute,” said Huxley. “But Drake doesn’t have a car, so I don’t know how he’d get there.”

“You mean that guy Xavier who plays for the Ravens?” Murphy snorted. “He’s like, totally in the closet. You know Drake isn’t into that shit.” He too looked worried. “Drake has mad respect for you, Coach Samarin. If anyone can get him to stop being a fuckhead, it’s you.”

“I see,” said Misha, because he had no idea what else to say. “If he doesn’t have a car, where else might he have gone?”

“So, there’s this guy Drake lived with before he and I got an apartment. This dude named Gavin. He could be at his place.”

“And did you check for him there?” Misha asked, feeling tired. Why hadn’t they offered that solution first, or better yet, gone to look for Drake themselves?

“I have no idea where he lives. Drake never said. We promised we—look. It’s just better if you find him,” Huxley said, elbowing Murphy. “And umm. Gavin was a sketchy-looking motherfucker, so do you have a gun? Because he might be a drug dealer.”

Misha stared at him, but instead of laughing like Misha hoped he would, Huxley just looked hopeful.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Misha said and reached for his cell phone.

MISHA WAS
able to get Drake’s former address from the Spitfires office, and he headed off later that night to retrieve their wayward goalie—if that was where he was.

The place was in a shady neighborhood near the Greenville-Spartanburg airport. Max insisted on accompanying Misha the second Misha related Huxley’s comment about the necessity of firearms. They found the apartment easily enough by following the loud music and the cloud of smoke drifting out of it.

When he opened the door, Drake didn’t even look surprised—just resigned. There were a bunch of guys in the living room, all of whom gave Max and Misha suspicious looks. But Misha had spent a lot of his youth around dangerous men, and his expression made them get up and slink out without a word.

Drake was dressed in cargo pants and a white tank top, and while the room was thick with marijuana smoke, he was drinking a Gatorade and playing a video game. Misha had a sudden, viscerally unpleasant memory of being seventeen. He wanted to drag Drake out of there by his spiky, blue hair.

“I know. Okay? I’m off the team. Just get out of here and leave me alone.”

“Drake,” Max took a step toward him. Drake reacted like Max was trying to shoot him. He moved away so quickly he almost tripped over the coffee table and fell on his ass.

Drake was a lot of things, but in goal, other than angry, he was graceful. It was a testament to how freaked out Drake was that he was nearly falling over his own limbs—though the apartment was such a mess, maybe it was inevitable.

Misha reached out and gently held Max back. “This is not how a captain behaves, Drake.”

“I tried to tell you,” Drake muttered, looking away. He sat on the couch in an affected, petulant sprawl. “Look. This has nothing to do with you, Coach.” Drake’s scowl couldn’t quite hide his look of pain.

“No,” Misha said very carefully. “It has everything to do with me. And Coach Ashford, and Huxley and Murphy, and the rest of the team you’re letting down by running away.”

Drake’s expression was tight and full of anger. “Whatever. Lathrop’s a good goalie. He’ll—” Drake’s voice grew choked, his eyes gleamed with sudden brightness, and he threw the controller with a curse. “Just get the fuck out.”