by Avon Gale
The man had small eyes and nervous hands, and Max could clearly see sweat dampening his thinning hair and the armpits of his shirt. They were in the south, but it was mid-November. The weather was beautiful and in no way sweat-worthy, even for someone from Minnesota, like Max.
“Sure,” Drake said. He didn’t sound like he meant it in the slightest.
The way the man watched Drake made Max’s stomach churn. Something was definitely wrong. “You know this guy?”
The man laughed unpleasantly. “He knows me. Real well. Real well. Ain’t that right, Benjy?”
Nothing much ever made Isaac Drake look defeated. He looked defiant even at the end of their 8-0 loss to Jacksonville when he sat the bench after he was pulled and his backup was sent in. But something about the way the man spoke to him made the fire in Drake’s dark blue eyes dim and made him hunch in on himself and lower his chin in a way Max didn’t think he’d ever seen before.
He didn’t like it at all. Drake was the backbone of the Spitfires, and Max would be damned if some sleazy dude with perspiration problems made Drake... fizzle.
“I’m not sure what you’re doing here, but this is a closed practice and you seem to be bothering Drake,” Max said. He wasn’t as imposing as Misha, maybe, but he was still over six feet tall, well-built. And fuck, no way was this asshole intimidating him. “And I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
“We all got preferences,” the guy drawled. “Maybe you should change yours. I know Benjy here does. If the price is right.”
“Fuck you,” Drake muttered, but it was a poor imitation of his usual colorful obscenities. And he said it to the ground, instead of to Sleazy Guy’s face.
Sleazy Guy smiled. His teeth were stained, and the best word Max could think of to describe him would be oily. Or maybe weaselly. “Guess we’ll see, huh.” The man turned and walked off whistling. He sounded so smug that Max wanted to karate chop him like they did in the movies.
“Drake,” he started, unsure what to say. “What was that about?”
Drake’s head snapped up and he fixed Max with a glare that wasn’t quite up to his usual standards. But his voice was a low hiss, thick with what sounded like loathing. “None of your fucking business.”
And with that he stomped off, leaving Max to stare after him in confusion, wondering what the hell just happened.
“I think something’s up with Drake,” Max said later that night as he watched Misha do mysterious cooking things that eventually resulted in dinner. Misha had taken Max up on his offer to help exactly once. Then he figured out Max was hopeless in the kitchen, so he just cooked and plied Max with vodka. The good kind. That worked out well for Max.
Max caught Misha pouring the Smirnoff into a saucepan at one point. But once he tasted actual good vodka, Max was surprised Misha didn’t pour it down the sink.
“Something more than usual?” Misha was in jeans and a plain, white T-shirt. He was barefoot, and his hair was wet from his shower and slicked back off his face. He looked like he should be in a commercial for men’s grooming products. Or a Calvin Klein ad aimed at older guys. Max wondered if Misha had gone through his whole life with all of his hotness unappreciated.
Clearly he had a lot to make up for.
Max nodded. “There was this guy talking to him,” he said and he recounted the scene outside of the arena. “It was creepy. The dude looked like he was trying to get Drake to go look at some puppies in his van. Drake was pissed.”
Misha frowned. “Why would puppies make anyone angry?”
“I meant that, like, he looked like a child molester.” Max shrugged. “You know. The kind that lure kids by promising puppies.”
“Drake is twenty-four. Yes?”
“Misha.” Max shook his head helplessly. “Are you doing that thing like you do to Belsey, where you pretend to not understand English to avoid talking to him?”
“No,” Misha assured him. He gave a small, contained smile that made Max feel warm and fuzzy inside. Though admittedly two glasses of vodka on an empty stomach might also be a contributing factor. “I don’t understand the reference. Maybe it’s because you’re so much younger than me.”
“Right, grandpa,” Max joked, lifting his glass, but he went all serious again. “I don’t think Drake wanted the guy hanging around is what I’m getting at. It was....” He tried to think of how best to explain his feeling of unease. “It felt threatening.”
Misha’s head snapped up, and his dark eyes narrowed. “He was threatening Drake?”
Max thought carefully how to answer that. Misha’s sudden intensity was really hot, which he liked, but it was just a feeling, and he didn’t want to cause any drama. Belsey might use it as an ad campaign. He could almost hear Sting singing about how he’d always be watching. “I don’t.... Kind of? It seemed more like... him being there was making Drake angry. Angrier than normal,” Max clarified. “He told me to fuck off.”
“Drake or the man who was with him?”
“Drake, but the man called him Benjy.” Max made a face. “There’s no way that’s Isaac Drake’s nickname. I feel like he’d pummel anyone who tried to make it that too.”
There was an odd look on Misha’s face, something haunted that was gone too quickly for Max to figure out what it was. “Maybe a family member.”
“Maybe. If he really doesn’t like his family. And Drake’s a lot better looking than this guy, so it’d have to be relation by marriage.” Max noticed that Misha’s mouth tightened just a bit and his expression went cold. Misha wasn’t an overly warm man, but he was wearing his Coach Samarin face. The one he wore when any of his players even thought about not doing what they were told.
When Misha looked like that, even Max wanted to do what he said —which brought up some interesting ideas that were best saved for later, when they weren’t discussing their player’s potential personal dramas.
“Not everyone likes their family,” Misha said. He looked tense, as if he were waiting for the inevitable questions that would accompany such a statement.
Max was curious, but he didn’t like Misha being tense and unhappy, especially because of him. “True. Anyway I don’t know what to do about it or if there’s anything we can do. I guess just keep an eye out.”
Misha gave Max a considering look. “If it affects Drake’s playing, we’ll inquire further. If not, then it is not our business. Yes?”
“No. I mean yes. See, that’s why you can’t add yes to the end of things. It’s confusing.” Max grinned. “Being as how I’m just pretty and dumb.”
Misha scowled. “You’re not dumb.”
Max would never get over how adamant Misha was about Max being more intelligent than Belsey gave him credit for. Misha was probably giving Max more credit than he deserved. He wasn’t very book smart, because he spent all his time playing hockey. But if you needed help moving or carrying heavy things, he was a lot better at that.
Max wished he could toss back his vodka in a sexy fashion, but the one time he tried that, Misha lectured him because he wasn’t in college. Instead he sidled over to Misha and kissed him. “How long until dinner’s ready?”
“Long enough,” said Misha. He settled his hands on Max’s shoulders and gave a slight push to send Max to his knees—Misha knew how much Max liked him being aggressive.
Although Max enjoyed what he learned about being with a guy, he still mostly liked sucking cock. He might not have all of Misha’s fucking-amazing technical skills, but he was enthusiastic, and Misha didn’t seem to have any complaints. He pressed Misha back against the counters and slid his hands up Misha’s muscled thighs, taking his time and mouthing over Misha’s cock through his boxer briefs. Misha looked so good in those, Max wondered if he could get away with taking sneaky cell phone pics.
Misha liked being aggressive and Max liked teasing, and by the time Misha’s cock was in his mouth, Misha had his hands in Max’s hair and was muttering in Russian while thrusting forward with his hips. He always stopped if Max choked,
until Max figured out that it felt good. He had learned how to do it until it really was too much, which he was always able to convey with a simple tap on Misha’s thigh. As much as Misha lost himself to what Max was doing, he was always so aware of Max, so in tune with him, that it made Max giddy—though sometimes that was the lack of air.
When it was over, Misha spun him around and held him with Max’s back pressed to his chest. He mouthed at Max’s neck and got him off right there in the kitchen with his hand. Misha was great at handjobs, and no matter how hard he tried to replicate it on his own—and despite getting laid a lot, Max still tried—he never quite got the hang of it. Maybe it was the part where he didn’t have Misha behind him while his smooth, dark voice whispered filthy things in his ear.
It was in the spirit of warm contentment brought on by the vodka and the orgasm and the fact he didn’t have to try and cook dinner that prompted Max to say, “Hey. My parents are coming up for Thanksgiving. Want to have dinner with us?”
Misha stopped plating their dinner and went still. “Your parents?”
“Yup. Unless you’ve got other plans?” Max felt his face flush. He shouldn’t assume that Misha didn’t have anything planned just because Russians didn’t have Thanksgiving.
“I—no. I don’t.” Misha gave him such a sharp stare Max almost wanted to check for possible bleeding. “You want me to have dinner with your family.”
It was and yet wasn’t a question. Max nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I know my place is small, but I’m sure they’d like to meet you. Are you okay?”
Misha didn’t look okay, and with dawning horror, Max realized that he might have totally misread the thing with the two of them. Maybe it was like those two guys in Montreal. Sex and nothing else. “Umm,” he started carefully, not sure it was the best time to have that conversation. “You don’t have to, if you’d rather not,” he finished lamely.
Misha still stared at him.
Max attempted to change the subject. “I’m starving. Are you gonna let me have some of that or just taunt me with it?”
Misha blinked and put Max’s portion on a plate. It was some kind of stir-fry over rice, and Max had chicken while Misha had tofu. That Misha bought and kept meat in the house, despite being a vegetarian, made Max wonder if maybe Misha wasn’t used to having a boyfriend. But that was a boyfriend thing to do. Wasn’t it?
Max put his fork down. “This is a relationship. Right? This thing we’ve got. Because I’m here a lot, and we have a lot of sex, and you make me chicken even though you don’t eat it. And you let me use your laundry machine.” Either this was a relationship, or Max should really go home and do his own laundry. And also go grocery shopping. “That’s why I asked if you wanted to come to Thanksgiving dinner. I mean. We’re friends too,” he finished, feeling foolish.
Misha looked panicked, which confused the hell out of Max. And his tall, broody Russian boyfriend—because Max found he didn’t mind using that word, even to himself—was being tall and broody and Russian, and Max had no idea what to do. He could only soldier on, because he might not know about trivia or cooking or how to separate his laundry, but he knew all about going forward. He’d been doing that his whole life, on the ice and off.
“You could say something,” Max offered. If his hockey metaphor applied to Misha, then Misha was just being defensive out of habit. Right.
“I don’t know what that would be.” Misha finally released Max from his laser-eye stare and glanced down at his plate. He always ate across the kitchen island from Max, standing up, even though there was a barstool next to the one Max sat on.
“Do you want this to be a friends-with-benefits thing? A thing where I don’t tell anyone who you are?” Max made a face. “Fuck. I’m going to be so bad at that.”
“Is that what you want? A relationship?”
“Well, seeing as how I thought we had one... yeah,” Max said. “But you—I need to know what you want. Like, if you don’t want to be my boyfriend, then tell me. It’s probably good if you do that sooner rather than later, though. I don’t want us having dramatic encounters in the parking lot after practice. Not my style.” Max gave him a tentative smile.
Misha did not return it. “You could have someone else,” he said, which was not what Max wanted to hear at all, but given Misha’s... Misha-ness, it wasn’t a surprise that he totally missed the point.
“Misha.” Max fixed him with a look. He didn’t have the laser stare down quite as well, but it was a respectable effort. “I don’t want someone else.”
Misha finally smiled. He shook his head and gave a little laugh that almost sounded sheepish. It was probably the most adorable Max had ever seen him look. Max reached out for his glass, wanting more vodka so he could forget he just thought about Misha as being adorable, but it turned out to be water. Misha was adorable and sneaky.
“This is very strange,” Misha said.
“You’re telling me. I’m trying to figure out if I’m making a fool of myself, and you’re being—” Don’t say adorable, Max. “—unhelpful.”
Misha leaned across the table, took Max’s chin in his fingers, and kissed him. “This is what I want.”
Max half stood on his barstool and leaned closer to Misha so he could kiss him back. “Great. But you’re still not telling me what this is. You want what, exactly?”
“You.”
“Misha,” Max said and bit at his mouth in warning. He wanted to be done with the conversation and go fuck, already.
“Max.” Misha kissed him again. “Boyfriend? This word, it is so... juvenile.”
“Considering that I almost had to write you a ‘do you like me, check yes or no’ letter to find out if that’s what you are, it fits.” Max sat back down, pleased with himself, Misha, dinner, and everything except his glass full of water instead of vodka. “So, for the last time, do you want to have Thanksgiving dinner with me and my parents?”
“Yes.” Misha nodded. “If you promise that you won’t cook.” He smiled, and it wasn’t his usual small, reserved smile. Max saw teeth, even. And for once there was no haunted look in Misha’s dark eyes, no wariness, no guilt that Max hoped to God would one day leave and never come back. He was just a handsome man smiling at Max like he’d won the lottery.
He knew Misha well enough by then to know that the reprieve from moodiness wouldn’t last, but he couldn’t help wishing it would. Making Misha look that happy was a thousand times better than anything. “I promise,” Max said, and his voice was a little husky. Maybe he was just talking about cooking, but maybe he wasn’t.
Chapter Eight
The closer it got to Thanksgiving, the more Misha wondered if he was making a terrible mistake.
Not the part where he was having a relationship with Max—he still wasn’t sure he could handle the word boyfriend—but the part where he agreed to meet Max’s parents. How could they want that, to have dinner with the man who ruined their son’s career? And certainly Max wasn’t going to tell them they were together.
No. Max had lost enough because of Misha. He would not let Max lose anything else, and he knew how important Max’s family was to him and how well they all got along. But to refuse to go to dinner would be to disappoint Max. It left Misha torn between his desire to make Max happy and his need to protect him, and he had no idea what to do.
The Spitfires were slowly climbing out of their hole, but the last few games had not gone well. Drake’s performance in goal, which had been stellar for the last month, was starting to suffer. His attitude had taken a turn for the worse, and one day after practice, Misha caught him and Matt Huxley, the team enforcer, shouting at each other in the locker room.
“I’m just saying, dude, you haven’t been home in four days—”
“What the hell, Hux? Why do you even care? I pay my goddamn share of the rent.” Drake, when he wasn’t wearing all that goalie gear, wasn’t a physically imposing man. He wasn’t nearly as tall as the league average for goalies, at just shy of five foot ten, and
he was built more like a soccer player than anything.
Huxley, on the other hand, was six foot two, two-hundred-something pounds, and all muscle. He crossed his arms over his chest, and glared while Drake slammed things into his locker with more force than necessary.
“Jesus, Drake. You know, people can give a shit what happens to you, asshole. It’s called being your friend. Did you not watch Sesame Street as a kid, or what?” Huxley raised his voice a few notches. “You’re seriously not staying at Gavin’s, are you? I thought you hated that guy.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Drake responded, his own voice rising. He slammed the locker door. “Just back off, Hux.”
“Is there a problem?” Misha asked, his voice cool. He resisted the urge to rub his temples. Misha fully expected the answer to that question to be no, but Hux surprised him.
“Yeah. There is,” he snapped, glaring at Drake. “But good luck getting whatever it is out of Captain Drake, here.” With that, Hux stomped off and banged—loudly, of course—out of the locker room.
Misha turned toward Drake, and he wondered what Max would say in that situation. He wished Max were there to deal with it. “Anything you need to tell me, Drake?”
Drake glanced at him, and there was something about Drake’s defensiveness, his wariness, and the haunted look in his eyes. Misha recognized it and wished with all his heart that he didn’t. He’d had a bad feeling about the situation from the moment Max first told him about witnessing the confrontation in the parking lot, and it was only getting worse.
Drake opened his mouth, but before he could snap anything, Misha held a hand up. “Coach Ashford told me there was a man bothering you in the parking lot. Has this man been showing up at the games?”
Drake looked angry and tension tightened the lean lines of his body, but he nodded. “Yeah.”
“This is affecting your play.” It wasn’t a question. “Tell me his name. I will make sure he is not at the next one.”
That clearly was not what Drake expected. His posture had gone tense but he hunched in on himself and no longer looked at Misha. He wasn’t the same goalie who’d fiercely smashed his stick on the ice in Toledo. “Just let Lathrop start. He should. He’s good.”