by Avon Gale
“It was true, and you said it way better than I could have,” Max said.
The praise made Misha flush, and he nodded uncomfortably. “It had to be said. Belsey is wrong to use what happened to you as an excuse.”
“To us,” Max said firmly. “To us, Misha. Not just me.”
Every time Max said his name, something inside him yearned a little more for the things he had no right to want. It was a name for close friends and family. It had been a very long time since Misha had either, and yet that was the name everyone in America called him.
“To you,” Misha repeated in his coach voice. “It was you who suffered, Max.”
“Bullshit.” Max took a deep breath. “Look. I think—I didn’t want to have to do this. Talk about it.”
“Then we won’t.”
“But we need to. Not here, though.” Max made a face. “I imagine Belsey could be lurking around the corner. Or there are bugs in your office.”
“Bugs?” His brain was migraine slow, and it took him a minute to realize what Max meant. “Ah. Yes. Like the KGB.”
Max grinned. “I know more about Russian spy stuff than whatever that literature was that Belsey was talking about. But seriously, let’s go. Oh... uh. Unless your head hurts and you want to go home?”
Misha’s head hurt, and he did want to go home. But he wouldn’t do that. If Max wanted to talk, then they would talk—even if his stomach was coiled up tight with nerves, even if the lights were starting to make colors that weren’t there shine behind his eyes.
“It’s fine,” Misha said. He felt the edges of the pill against his fingers, rolled it once, twice, and then pulled his hand from his pocket and stood up. “Where do you want to go?”
“My place,” Max said, and Misha’s words were all stolen away, taken from him by Max Ashford’s pretty eyes and his easy smile—all the things he was giving to Misha that Misha did not deserve. All the things he wanted that he couldn’t have.
Max’s apartment was in a new development south of town, a ten-minute-or-so drive from Misha’s place. The apartments were simple and clean, with white walls, new countertops, and up-to-date appliances. Max still had boxes in the living room.
Hanging on his wall was a team picture of the Habs from when they beat the Capitals to advance to the conference championship. Max was easy to spot. He was grinning and he looked sweaty and triumphant.
Had Misha ever felt that joyful about hockey? Would he, if he never hit Max in the finals, never got suspended, and won the Cup with his team without the guilt? Was he capable of that sort of carefree happiness? He didn’t think so. Playing hockey was never about joy. It was about survival. He liked coaching hockey far more than he ever liked playing it.
Misha’s migraine pounded relentlessly. Max came up behind him and handed him something cold in a bottle. Beer. A Bud Light.
“It’s all I’ve got,” he said defensively, as if Misha expected champagne. “In case you wanted something fancier.”
Misha shook his head, which made him feel nauseous. He took a careful sip of his beer, knowing he shouldn’t. He wanted water but refused to ask for it and insult Max’s hospitality. The cold bottle felt good in his hands.
“Let’s go sit down.” Max took a drink of his beer. He looked nervous, and Misha assumed it was because he was there, looming over him threateningly.
Misha sat on the couch and took a moment to rest his head back against the wall behind him. The migraine growled, pinching and biting its way through his skull and down his neck.
“You sure you don’t want any aspirin?”
“Da,” Misha said, wincing at his momentary lapse into Russian. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Yes you do, or yes you’re sure?”
“I’m fine. What did you want to talk about?”
Max sighed. “Right. Okay. Just—one sec.” He sat down next to Misha—which was distracting—and picked up a remote. He switched on the television, muttered to himself, and went through a dizzying array of menu options until YouTube popped up on the screen.
Misha had a sinking sensation that had nothing to do with his migraine. “Max.”
“Just—I know. Okay?” He looked over and smiled at Misha, and the lack of recrimination made Misha’s breath catch in his throat. His head throbbed in protest. Other things throbbed in longing. “I’m not going to play any rock ballads while we watch it.”
“Thank God,” Misha muttered, and Max laughed, the sound as clear and bright as his eyes.
In contrast Misha sat next to him drowning in darkness.
He’d seen the replay, of course. Misha watched it almost obsessively after the accident, before and after his suspension, and any time he happened to see it on the news. It was a penance of sorts—to not look away, to suffer watching what he did, over and over.
“I’d never watched this, you know.”
“The YouTube video?” Misha had seen that too. It was filled with angry commenters yelling that he should be deported back to Russia.
“The hit.”
Misha blinked. “You’ve seen the commercial, though. Yes?”
“Yeah, I wish I could say I haven’t seen that. But I meant, I didn’t watch this until a few months ago. They played that game on the NHL channel, so I watched it.”
It never occurred to Misha that Max wouldn’t have seen it, but then he remembered that Max was the hero, not the villain of the story.
Misha watched the hit play out on the screen. What must that feel like, to watch the moment it all ended? When Max hit the ice, did he know that game was his last?
Did Misha know it was his? How had he felt? He couldn’t remember.
The scene switched to the replay. Misha watched dispassionately, retreated into the blinding pain of his migraine, and told himself that it was all right to suffer, that he should, that he deserved it.
Max paused the video. “Look. See what I have there?”
Misha blinked. He had not expected questions. “I—what?”
“The puck, Misha. The puck. Your hit wasn’t late.”
Oh. “Yes. I know.”
Max stared at him. On the television screen, their younger selves were suspended at the moment everything changed. Max lay prone on the ice. Misha stood, staring down at him with his head bowed like he was praying. “You knew that all along?”
“Da,” Misha said and rubbed at his eyes. It didn’t help, and closing his eyes made his stomach lurch. He went to put his beer on the table in front of the couch, but there was no coaster, so he didn’t.
“I—it was a legal hit. When I fell, I hit my head on the side of my stick and did something to mess up my peripheral vision. I can’t see well enough to play hockey and I’m lucky I passed my driver’s test.” Max winced. “I probably shouldn’t have.”
“It wasn’t your stick. It was mine.” Misha knew that. He remembered sitting alone in the locker room. The sound of the crowd was a distant, dull roar, and there was blood on the edges of the stick.
“Why... why didn’t you say anything? They shouldn’t have suspended you—not for that long. Not for a legal hit. Even if it—I mean, people get injured in our sport. I did. It’s not like I didn’t know it could happen. It’s just....” Max shrugged. “I didn’t expect it. But who does?”
Misha, if he were being honest. “It does not matter if you still had the puck or not, Max. It was... it ended your career.”
“If you start singing “I Need a Hero,” I’m going to punch you in the face.”
“I won’t,” Misha assured him. Max continued to stare at him with wide eyes. Misha wasn’t sure how old he was, but he assumed either thirty, or just shy of it. Misha was forty—at least ten years older. He felt much older than that.
“I’m just trying to say, Misha, that I’m sorry.”
Misha stared at him, dumbfounded. “I—Prosti, chto ti skazal?”
Max tilted his head. “Uh.”
He’d spoken in Russian again. The migraine was starting to play havoc w
ith his senses. The migraine and Max—so close and saying he was sorry. “I said—it doesn’t matter. What are you sorry for? You have nothing. There is nothing. No reason.”
“Well, I should have said something when you had your hearing. I could have told them it wasn’t a late hit, if I’d watched this. And maybe then you would have played in the finals.”
Max looked so earnest that Misha actually laughed. Even if it made the pain in his head grow by a thousand. “Max. It would not have mattered. They would have been annoyed at you, I think, if you had. They wanted to give me a harsh punishment. They should have. And they did.”
“Why should they? Did you try and end my career? Because I don’t think you did. I think you were trying to knock me off the puck, since you were a defenseman. And that’s what you do.” Max’s chin went up. “So, is that it? Were you trying to take me out? Was someone paying you? Bookies?”
“No. Of course not,” Misha said, feeling... something. Pain from the migraine, but something else. Maybe foolish.
“I never thought that. Ever. I thought it sucked, and it.... Yeah. Maybe I was mad at you for, oh, ten minutes when I woke up and realized what happened. But I’m not anymore, and I haven’t been for a long time. It’s been five years, Misha. You know who I was mad at? My fiancée, for leaving me when they said I couldn’t play anymore. My stupid head, for turning the wrong way when I fell, so that it fucked up my vision. My helmet, for not working like it was supposed to. The ice, for being hard. God. Myself. But not you.”
Misha didn’t know what to say. The forgiveness Max had given him was absolute and overwhelming, and he didn’t want it. He couldn’t have it. It made things too confusing and it took away the simplicity of his suffering. It threw the world, once black and white, into too many bright colors.
“You should be mad at me,” Misha said, slurring a little. He touched the pill in his pocket. He wanted to take it so badly and he wasn’t sure he could drive home with the pain as bad as it was. He would have to sleep in his car.
“Well, I’m not. And you were right when you told Belsey that he needed to stop using the past as a theme for our season. It’s not going to make us score goals or win. But neither is your guilt.” Max’s eyes narrowed. “But for the record? It wasn’t just my career that was over after that game. It was both of ours. It was a fucking accident, Misha, and it sucked. For both of us.”
Max expelled a breath. He reached out, took the remote, and turned off YouTube. “And don’t ever read the fucking comments on here. I didn’t know people were still so mad about Communists. Most of them weren’t even fucking born when there were any. There aren’t any Communists. Right? Or are there?” Max scowled. “I suck at history. But we’re clear. Right? We’re going to get over this? We’re over it? Both of us?”
There was nothing Misha could do but agree. “Da. Yes. Will you excuse me?” Misha asked and stood up. His legs were shaking and his equilibrium was blown. It was the migraine. It was Max. It was all of it.
He found the bathroom and pulled the white pill from his trouser pocket. He stared at it, held it up, and threw it in the basin. His reflection in the mirror looked sallow-eyed and tense under the soft yellow glow of the lights. He turned the water on and washed the pill down the sink.
Max looked concerned when Misha returned to the living room. “You don’t look so good. I mean. Your—you look sick. Like you feel sick.” “Do you want to lie down or something?”
Yes. Yes he did. Misha laughed and said something in Russian—something like “You have no idea how badly I want to lay down” and then headed toward the door. He had to get out of there, before something else, part of the foundation of his life, fell apart.
“I don’t think you better drive.” Max blocked his way. “You might get hurt. And you are not leaving me with this train wreck of a team, Samarin. Hell no.”
Misha blinked at him. He wished he hadn’t thrown the pill down the sink. He wished he were at home. He wished he’d waited half a second before he hit Max, wished it was a late hit and as bad as everyone claimed it had been. Something... anything to make him the villain everyone wanted him to be. The villain Misha wanted to be so badly it ached.
“Moody fucking Russians,” Max said, and Misha did the only thing he could think of, the one thing that he knew would make Max angry and would finally make him punish Misha like he deserved.
He leaned forward and kissed him.
Chapter Five
Max knew Misha was fucked up about something—either from his headache or Max not hating him—and he was pretty sure trying to stop him from leaving wasn’t going to end well. Max had never been a fighter on the ice, and while Misha had been a defenseman and not an enforcer, he’d had more fights in his career than Max had.
Max knew that because he was curious about Misha’s career and he maybe looked it up a few nights before. There weren’t a lot of fights, and Misha never, ever started them—except once, in a game against the Flyers, and the Flyers probably deserved it—but he had a respectable amount and had made a good showing.
So it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Misha might punch him in the stomach to make Max get out of his way. But Max certainly hadn’t expected Misha to kiss him.
Misha seemed determined to make Max hate him. Was that his newest ploy? If so, fuck that shit. It was not going to work. Max didn’t have a lot of experience with guys, but that whole thing with the bartenders at the Riu Playacar had given him enough. Besides, kissing was kissing.
But this wasn’t kissing. It was Misha trying to make him angry, maybe trying to knock him off the puck like they were playing hockey. Fuck that. Max wasn’t getting knocked off a goddamn kiss. Hell no.
He reached up and got a hand on Misha’s tie—which, wait... should he be wearing a tie to staff meetings?—then pulled him down a little because Misha was tall. Max shoved his tongue in Misha’s mouth.
Misha made a noise, something surprised and rough and hungry, and all the hockey metaphors went out of Max’s head, along with everything else that wasn’t Oh, he’s good at this.
“What the hell was that?” Max asked when they broke apart. Misha’s eyes were dark and burning like coals. “I told you I wasn’t homophobic.” Not the most intelligent thing to say, but it was all he had. He pressed his fingers to his mouth. His lips felt like they were tingling.
“You had a fiancée,” Misha said, accent heavy and reminding Max of a Bond villain. In a good way. Russians were good guys, weren’t they? Sometimes? One of the World Wars? Was it WWII?
“Yeah. I don’t think she’ll mind, seeing as how she’s married and expecting a baby.” Max’s fiancée, Emma, had been perfectly ready to take on life as a pro athlete’s wife. So much so that, after Max’s accident, she went ahead and found another one. A baseball player across the country in San Francisco.
Max was over it, but he still hoped the bastard got traded to the Cubs.
Max crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t fuck around with me. Are you kissing me to freak me out or because you wanted to kiss me?”
Misha looked like he was considering the question. Which was a bit too much for Max’s ego to handle.
“Seriously?”
“Maybe both,” Misha said, and then, “My head hurts.”
“You are really bad at this.” Max suppressed the urge to smile. “Like, really bad.”
“I know. May I have some water?”
He couldn’t deny him water, and he really did look terrible. But Max was still—turned on, hungry, wanting—riled up. And no, Misha could not have water, not unless he answered the question. “Talk, Samarin.”
“I wanted to kiss you. Yes. And I thought you would hate me.”
“Is this still about the accident?” Max asked. “It can’t be.”
Misha leaned his head back against the door. He looked tormented and miserable. Exactly how you wanted someone to look after they kissed you. Right. “No.”
That was apparently all he
was getting. Max nodded and said, “I’ll get some water. And some aspirin. That must be a killer headache.”
“It’s a migraine.”
“Don’t they give you medicine for those?” He remembered his brother’s wife used to get them a long time back. She said she got rid of them by getting pregnant. That wasn’t exactly an option for Misha.
“Yes.”
“Do you have any with you?” Max had had easier conversations with house cats.
Misha opened his eyes. “I did. But not now.”
“Did you already take it? Is it this hard to get answers out of you all the time?”
“No. I washed it down the sink. And yes. I hate talking about myself.”
Max smiled slightly at that last part, but then gave Misha a concerned stare. “Why did you do that? Why didn’t you take it?”
“I’m Russian,” Misha said with the faintest hint of a smile. “We angst, Max.”
“I see that. Well, I’m American. We force shit on other people if we think they need it. Like democracy. And pop music.” Max left him there and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
“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.