Power Play (6 page)

“Here.” He handed Misha the glass. “I have something. Hang on.” He went into his bedroom and avoided looking at the bed—which was not made, and maybe if Misha didn’t look like death warmed over Max would do something about that—and went into the en suite bathroom.

He came back and handed Misha two pain pills. “These aren’t for migraines, but they’re Vicodin. I got them when I had my appendix out a few years ago.”

Misha took them and swallowed them without a word, which told Max his migraine must be pretty awful. And also that Max probably wasn’t getting laid.

Which was fine. Totally fine. They kissed once. Whatever. And it didn’t count. It was a point-making kiss or something. Even if Max wasn’t sure what the point
was
or who was making it. He got a blanket and pillow for the couch.

“I did want to kiss you,” Misha said as Max came back to the room. He sat down again and started pulling at his tie. He had draped his coat over a chair and placed his shoes neatly next to the couch.

Misha was too tidy to be a Bond villain. And he was nowhere near maniacal enough. “Good,” Max said. “I mean. I don’t want you to kiss me just to piss me off.” He took a deep breath. What the hell. “You can if it’s because you want to, though.”

Misha stared at him and blinked like a confused, doped-up owl. “Max.”

“What? We’re not going to be weird about this, are we?” Max asked, worrying at his lower lip. “I mean. I don’t want it to be weird.”

“I think it will probably be weird.” Misha yawned and settled on his back. He was a bit too tall for the couch. “Thank you, Max.”

“For the drugs, for kissing you back, or for the liquor?” Max winced. “I sound like a creeper.”

“For forgiving me,” Misha said. “And for kissing me back.”

Max smiled and went into his room. He kept the door open, just in case.

BEFORE THE
team went out on the ice for their game in Toledo against the Jackhammers, Misha stood up to give the pregame speech.

That was usually Max’s job, because he was a lot more emotive and better at speeches in general. But while the Spitfires had their issues, they did take their coach seriously. All it took to make the locker room fall silent was Misha clearing his throat. Once. Max sometimes had to use the air horn app on his cell phone, and even
then
it wasn’t easy to get their attention.

“This season has not started out like we wanted. Any of us,” Misha said in his quiet, deep voice. “But we can change this. Do not think about the games that came before. Do not think about records or statistics or the game next week. Do not think about the second period. Think about the moment you are on the ice, and the puck. And that is all you need to think about.”

It wasn’t a rousing speech, but two minutes into the first period, Drew Crowder scored the first goal of the season. There wasn’t a very large crowd to appreciate it, especially since they were in Toledo, but it certainly brought jubilation to the bench. At least it was a highlight featuring an actual Spitfires player instead of an accident involving the coaches.

Despite the goal in the first, the game was shaping up to be a pretty boring affair. The Spitfires didn’t score again, but neither did their opponents. Max was looking forward to a point in the win column, and he was happy there was a goal. He was also wondering if maybe he and Misha could celebrate a Spitfires victory by making out in his hotel room.

The third period had other plans.

One of the Jackhammers, obviously irritated that they were losing to the “sure win” team, threw a hit on the Spitfires’ goalie. That was a bad idea for a multitude of reasons, the two main ones being that you didn’t throw hits on goalies, and if you did, you probably didn’t want to do it when Isaac Drake was in net.

Misha changed the lines to send Matt Huxley onto the ice. He should, in the time-honored tradition of hockey, defend the goalie by beating up the player who’d thrown the hit. He was also Drake’s best friend, as far as Max could tell, as the two lived together. He’d even seen Huxley with blue dye on his hands, presumably from helping Drake make his hair that unnatural color.

Before the line change, though, the Jackhammers player did it again. And that time he scored a goal. Max was certain it would be disallowed, but for some reason, the linesmen and the refs didn’t want Max to have any kind of celebratory making out and ruled it a good goal. Misha was angry and argued as best he could, but to no avail.

And that’s when the Spartanburg Spitfires finally had enough.

Two minutes later Max stood slack-jawed and stupid next to Misha while they watched their entire team make a beeline for the Jackhammers’ bench.

“Oh, my god,” Max said. He turned to Misha. “We don’t have to go fight their coaches, do we? I got in two fights in my entire career and I lost them both. The hockey fight website said so. Unanimously.”

Max could see the brawl on the ice escalating. Both benches were clear, which was a relief only because it wasn’t just Max’s team out there incurring a million penalties and thousands of dollars in potential fines.

Max saw a goalie stick raised high like a call to arms amid the crowd of brawling, angry hockey players. He laughed. He couldn’t help it.

Misha looked at him. “This is funny? This is not funny.”

“It’s funny,” Max gasped. “In that way things that aren’t funny are funny.”

Misha muttered something under his breath in Russian, which was probably “My assistant coach is crazy.” But then his lips twitched. “Our team is in a bench-clearing brawl, Max.”

I like the way you say my name.

“I know,” he said. “But, hey. Think of it this way. It’s gotta make for a much better commercial.”

“We don’t need a hero. We need a fire hose,” Misha muttered, and Max cracked up and couldn’t stop laughing.

The brawl ended with both teams being sent to the locker room to cool off and the officials figuring out how to assess the penalties and fines that would accompany them. Max vaguely knew that the fine for a bench-brawl was outrageous if you were an NHL player. But there was no way it could be in the thousands when these guys barely made any money.

When Misha and Max got to the locker room, they found their team standing together with raised chins and defiance gleaming in their eyes and visible in every line of their bodies. They were making a statement, and Max couldn’t help but feel proud of them.

He just wished they could have made that statement by scoring goals.

“I suppose this is my fault for telling you not to think,” Misha said as seriously as ever, but Max could see the hint of a smile on his stern countenance and hear the edges of amusement in his low voice. He wondered if anyone else noticed. “But I don’t want it to happen again.”

“It won’t, Coach,” Isaac Drake said. He had a black eye, and his lip was bleeding. Obviously someone’s fist had caught his lip piercing. “But we’re done being laughed at. We’re standing up for ourselves from now on.”

Misha sighed. “Yes, well. Let our enforcers handle what they are supposed to, Captain Drake. And the rest of you, try standing up for yourselves with offense. Hmm? The kind that ends in goals.”

Drake nodded. “Yes, Coach. We will. All of us.”

Max had never heard Drake speak so respectfully. He didn’t even have to glare threateningly at the rest of his teammates, who all nodded in agreement.

Misha looked at Max. “Anything you want to add, Coach Ashford?”

Max opened his mouth to say something chastising. Instead he said, “Even if we lose the game, you guys totally won that fight.”

The team cheered. Misha rubbed his temples and sighed.

The Spitfires did not win the game, but neither did the Jackhammers. In fact neither team had enough players left to
play
the rest of the game thanks to the penalties, so it was forfeited.

Max watched while Drake went to the Jackhammers bench when the forfeit was announced. He saw the goalie shaking hands with the guy who hit him and then heard laughter. Some of the other Spitfires ended up joining him, and before long both teams were making plans to go to a bar.

Max looked at Misha, who was getting an earful from the linesman. He had that look on his face, the one he got in staff meetings, the one that said he was doodling exploding airplanes or something equally violent.

The assistant coach of the Jackhammers came over to Max. “Well, that happened.”

“Yeah.” Max’s mouth twitched, despite himself. “I’m glad we didn’t have to get in a fight.”

“Me too. You and Coach Samarin want to meet up later? We’ll buy you a drink.” The coach crossed his arms. “Just so you know, though, I hate the Habs
and
the Bruins. I’m a Leafs fan.”

“I’m sorry,” said Max automatically, and they both laughed.

The coach invited them out to a different, better bar, one that had appetizers that weren’t peanuts and vending machine candy, and Max made tentative plans to meet up—until Misha came back from his verbal lashing and told him what their fine would be.

The vending machine was looking a little too pricey. Shit.

When Max texted the Jackhammers’ coach to give their regrets, he noticed he had four text messages and a voice mail from Belsey. Max turned his phone off, went to the gas station across from the hotel, and bought a six-pack of beer and a bag of Cheetos.

Then he went to find Misha.

MISHA WAS
in the shower when Max got back, so he stood in the hallway outside Misha’s room long enough to start worrying that it was a bad idea.

The door opened a crack. “Ah, Max.”

“Yes, Misha. Can I come in?” He held up the beer and Cheetos. “I brought dinner.”

“That’s what you brought for dinner? Then no.” Misha closed the door and left Max gaping like a thirsty fish for two seconds. Then he opened the door and stepped back to let Max in.

“I thought you were serious,” Max said, and he would have tried to ignore that Misha was dressed only in a towel—but he saw the tattoos.

And they weren’t just regular tattoos like Max had. Both of Max’s were bad decisions. A Chinese character for good luck—that sure worked out well—and one of those tribal bands around his upper arm that he found vaguely embarrassing to look at.

No. Misha’s tattoos were…. There were no colors, for one thing. And none of them were in English, which he should probably have expected. They weren’t tribal designs either.

Instead of remarking on Misha’s tattoos or his impressive-as-fuck physique—goddamn, someone had clearly kept in very good shape in their retirement—Max put the beer on the small table that every hotel room seemed to have. For all those important meetings you conduct at the Super 8. Misha disappeared back into the bathroom, and Max was mildly disappointed.

Max took a hasty drink of his beer, opened the Cheetos, and wondered why he was trying to get laid and eat a snack that turned his fingers orange at the same time.

A blowjob, Max reminded himself. That was really the limit of his experience with men. And when had he moved to blowjobs from making out?

When you saw Misha in that towel with all those tattoos.

Misha came out of the bathroom dressed in a pair of pajama pants and a faded Bruins T-shirt.

“I had six thousand messages from Belsey,” Max said. He sat in the uncomfortable chair next to the table. “I didn’t read or listen to any of them.”

Misha looked even taller than usual when he was standing and Max wasn’t. He took the beer Max handed him without commenting on the brand or the fact it was a little too warm by then. “I have some too.” Misha’s smile was as subtle as most everything else about him. “I did not listen either. Also he leaves me voice messages and speaks very slowly and very loud. Like I will not understand him.”

“No. He does that to me too. That’s not because you’re Russian. It’s just ’cause he’s a dick.” Max played with the tab on his can. “Do you think we’ll get in trouble?”

“Did you hear me tell you how much we were getting fined?”

Right. That’s why they were drinking cheap beer and eating Cheetos in the room instead of hanging out at a bar with appetizers that weren’t made of cheese powder and puffed air and drinks that were probably cold. “Yeah. He’ll be pissed. That was probably more than we made in ticket sales last month.”

In a moment of utter solidarity, Misha and Max clinked their beer cans and took a drink like it was a toast. Max stood up and tried to find his nerve because he knew that if he didn’t do anything, Misha wouldn’t either.

“So I maybe thought,” Max started. He wondered how the fuck he was supposed to approach Misha or if they should just eat Cheetos and make fun of Belsey some more. “Umm. Do you… maybe want to…?”

“This is a bad idea, Max.”

“Probably,” Max agreed and moved closer. He wanted that shirt off. He wanted to see Misha’s tattoos and run his hands all over him. “Your tattoos are hot.”

Something dark flashed over Misha’s face. “Max.”

“Misha. What? They are. I have two, but they’re dumb. Like I picked them out of a book at the counter. That’s how dumb they are. Yours are in Russian, so they’re already more badass. Or at least if they say lame shit like “Live life to its fullest,” I can’t tell. So….” Max smiled at Misha. “If you don’t want to do anything, we don’t have to. I got four more beers and a pack of Cheetos, and this place at least gets cable. So we could do that. Instead.”

Misha lowered his lashes, veiling his somber gaze for a moment. “Of course I want to,” he said so softly Max almost couldn’t hear.

Almost. He
did
hear, though. And hearing that made his cock get hard immediately. “You don’t mean eat Cheetos. Right?”

Misha made a choked noise. “No. I don’t mean eat Cheetos.”

“Then there’s no problem. I’ve done it before. Pinky swear.” He held his hand up, pinky extended.

Misha held his hand up, but he looked completely clueless about what to do. Max showed him the solemn gesture, then used the opportunity to reach out so he could take off Misha’s shirt. It wasn’t easy to do, since Misha was so tall. “Sorry, but I can’t make out with a guy in a Bruins shirt. I played for the Habs. I’d end up lynched if they found out in Montreal. They’d have a riot. You know how easy it is for them to do that.”