by Avon Gale
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.
Chapter Ten
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.
I like it here. Misha liked his team and the challenge of making them play to their potential. He liked his house, even if it was a bit too crowded at the moment with young men hitting each other with spoons. He even liked the accents of the locals, the sweet tea, and the fact they really had a grocery store called Piggly Wiggly.
And Max. He liked Max too. Especially last night, when—
“Misha?”
Misha nearly choked on his glass of iced tea when Suzanne materialized beside him. He should definitely not be thinking about that with a house full of his players and Max’s parents. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if I might talk to you for a second?” Suzanne smiled. “Maybe outside on that cute front porch? I can’t believe it’s warm enough to do that and it’s November.”
Misha did not think he should say no to her request, but he wanted to. Because Max clearly inherited a lot of things from his mother, including her eyes, her bone structure, and her easy, warm familiarity with both feelings and expressing them. That meant she might want to do this with Misha, and he did not think he could make her stop like he sometimes did with Max.
“Of course,” he said and followed her out to the porch.
“That’s quite a team you’ve got.” Suzanne sat on the porch swing and gave herself a push. She had blonde hair where Max’s was dark, and she wasn’t quite as tall as her son, but the childlike glee she took in swinging on the porch... well, Max did the same thing. Max had clearly inherited her sunny disposition and tendency to take pleasure in little things. Max got excited when they had a preview weekend for a premium movie channel on cable.
“They are a challenge,” Misha said. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Murphy and Huxley standing around the side of his house. They were smoking. “One moment, Suzanne.” He walked to the edge of the porch, folded his arms, and cleared his throat.
Huxley looked up and gave Misha a guilty look. Then he kicked at Murphy’s ankle. “Sorry, Coach.”
“Don’t throw those on my lawn,” Misha said and went back to the porch. He rolled his eyes. “Is like being a school principal, but I cannot give them detention.”
Suzanne laughed. “I bet. I had enough trouble raising two boys. You’ve got a lot more than that.”
“It’s easier when they don’t follow me home.” Misha smiled slightly, shoved his hands in his pockets, and leaned against the post. He waited for whatever Suzanne was going to say, and while he didn’t think it was going to be anything negative, he almost wished it were. Max’s kindness was hard enough to handle. He didn’t think he could deal with his mother’s on top of it.
“Max told me about six thousand times not to say anything,” Suzanne said, and Misha tried not to tense as he realized they were, most likely, going to talk about the accident. “But he probably knew that wouldn’t matter if I decided I wanted to. I just want you to know that Jim and I, we don’t blame you for what happened.” She looked up at Misha, and he wondered how it was that she looked almost younger than him.
Maybe he just felt older than he looked. Probably. “Thank you.” The words were stiff and formal, but he couldn’t help it. If they had to have the conversation, it would have been better after dinner. After vodka.
“We never did,” she continued. “And neither did Max. He was confused when he first woke up, and he was... upset. Angry, even, but never at anyone in particular. Maybe Emma, when she left. But I don’t really think—anyway.” She waved her hand. “I just want you to know that. In case you were worried.”
In case he was worried. Misha nodded again. He didn’t know what else to do. The urge to apologize was overwhelming but unnecessary. Max was right. At some point he was going to have to stop apologizing.
“You know, Jim and I, we were both so proud of Max when he was drafted. I can remember his first game with the Habs, how I couldn’
t believe that was really my son. It’s not like they gave us great seats or anything, but I could at least tell when he was on the ice.” She smiled. “That town was insane about hockey. But you know what makes me even happier as a parent? Seeing how much he respects you and how you two have become friends. That’s something I value more than any trophy, and it makes me think maybe I didn’t mess up that whole being-a-mom thing too bad.”
Misha was almost certain he was blushing. He couldn’t help it. He and Max were more than friends, for one thing, and for another—respect him? For what? He struggled for something to say because he realized he wanted to say something to her. Something about how thankful he was for Max’s friendship and how Max absolving him of the guilt he’d carried around for five years was a gift he never thought he’d earn.
“He is a good man,” Misha said, and while it was true, it didn’t convey nearly enough of what he wanted to express. He felt embarrassed and ducked his head, hoping it wasn’t obvious how uncomfortable he was. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
Suzanne smiled and pushed the swing again with her feet. Misha remembered when he moved in and how he thought about taking it down because he couldn’t imagine ever using it. “Yes. He is. And I think he’s going to be a great coach. You know, the things I learned from playing sports, the reason I wanted my sons to play them... it wasn’t so they could grow up and play in the NHL or have a nice house or a nice car or a beautiful wife. I wanted them to learn teamwork, how to trust their instincts, what it meant to try, and how anything worth having took patience and practice. And so I guess that’s why I’m more proud of Max for becoming a coach when he could have given up. Although he would have had to find something to do, because I’d turned his room into a gym. So he would have had to sleep on the treadmill if he thought he was going to move back home.”
She finally stood up, dusted her hands on her jeans, and turned back toward Misha with another one of those bright smiles. Before Misha could do anything to stop her, she reached in and hugged him. “I know that asshole Belsey was probably trying to use what happened to you and Max, and that makes me want to hit him in the mouth with one of my lacrosse sticks. But I’m glad you and Max had the chance to meet again. And the reason I’m telling you this is because I know that, no matter what Max says, or what Jim or I say—mostly me, because Jim would never have this conversation with anyone—you might still blame yourself. But getting knocked down is just part of the game. What matters is that you get back up again.”
She patted him on the back and then moved away. “Now if Max could learn to hang up his wet towels after he takes a shower, he might be the perfect child. Don’t tell him I said that, though.”
Misha definitely wouldn’t tell him anything of the kind. Though he agreed with Suzanne about the towels, and he had to stop himself from adding “also leaving his shoes in front of the door.”
The house didn’t burn down, so Misha considered dinner a success. Thankfully there were too many people and too many male professional athletes with a sense of humor equivalent to a twelve-year-old boy to go around and do something terrible like say what you’re thankful for.
Some of the guys brought girlfriends with them, and Misha had no idea that their backup, Anthony, was married. The girls formed a tight-knit group with Suzanne Ashford after dinner. They drank coffee and talked hockey, politics, and fashion while the Spitfires cleaned up.
Max stood next to Misha and watched the guys in the kitchen. There were the occasional muttered, “Oops,” and more than a few dish-clattering sounds, but for the most part, everything was going smoothly. Misha poured a vodka for himself and Max—the good vodka, which he was keeping a sharp eye on.
“Tvajó zdorov’ya,” he said, clinking his glass with Max’s.
“Yes. That,” Max said and took a sip. “Comrade.” He winked.
“It means, ‘to your health’,” Misha told him. “Is toast. Yes?”
“No, Misha,” Max said with an exaggerated eye roll. “It’s vodka. You get toast out of the toaster.”
Misha smiled a bit around the rim of his glass. The players were not the only ones with the humor of a twelve-year-old boy.
The crowd thinned out after the dishes were done, and Misha realized he was going to have to talk to Drake. He didn’t want to, would prefer to have the evening end nicely for everyone, but he knew it needed to be done. He kept thinking of Suzanne’s words—getting knocked down is just part of the game. What matters is that you get back up again. And Max telling him that he couldn’t keep Drake safe. He could only help Drake learn how to face whoever this man was and get past it. He hadn’t realized that he was trying to protect Drake like he did Max, and he couldn’t help but think those newfound protective instincts were all Max’s fault in the first place.
He went to his bedroom to get a sweater, as the evening had become chilly and he figured it was a good idea to talk to Drake outside. But before he could leave the room, Max dashed in, pushed him up against the door, and kissed him.
Misha, dreading the upcoming conversation with Drake and looking for an excuse to postpone having it, turned them around so Max’s back was pressed against the door. Then, knowing how much Max got off on his speaking Russian, he leaned in and said, “I want to fuck you with my hand over your mouth so you can’t make any noise” in his native language.
“That a toast too?” Max asked, his voice breathless. Misha gave a soft laugh and kissed him again.
“More of a promise.” Misha made himself move away, though he did enjoy the way Max stared at him, all bright eyed and flushed.
“You’re kind of a cocktease, Samarin,” Max called as Misha deftly moved around him to leave the room. “I’m gonna leave my shoes in the door just so you trip on them.”
“You’d do that anyway,” Misha called over his shoulder and then made sure there was no trace of the very pleased, probably stupid smile on his face by the time he reemerged into the living room.
He couldn’t let his players catch him smiling too much. He did have to uphold his reputation as a humorless hardass.
He found Drake sitting on the sofa, drinking a Coke, and messing with his phone. Huxley and Murphy were trying to explain football to Jakob, who looked drunk. Misha made a mental note to check his liquor supply and also to find the kid a ride home.
“Drake,” Misha said, gently placing a hand on Drake’s shoulder to get his attention.
Drake immediately jerked away from him, but he relaxed a bit when he saw it was Misha. “Yeah, Coach?”
Misha nodded toward the front door. “I would like to speak with you for a moment.”
Drake climbed gracefully to his feet, followed Misha outside, and grabbed a hoodie off the hook by the door.
All Drake needed was a cigarette to complete the “up to no good teenager” look, though Misha knew he was at least twenty-four. Drake hunched into his hoodie, leaned against the wall, and watched Misha with a wary expression that said he expected to hear something he’d rather not.
“I spoke with Belsey,” Misha said. He wasn’t one to mince words. “Unless I have specific reason why this man is dangerous, he will do nothing.”
Drake didn’t react as if he were all that surprised, but it was too dark to see if he was thoroughly disappointed that Misha hadn’t kept his word. Misha felt a sick twist in his stomach when he thought about that.
“So you want me to tell you why. Is that it?”
It sounded innocuous enough, but Misha heard the cautious note underlying Drake’s too-casual words and immediately decided what he was going to do. Until that moment he hadn’t been sure if he was going to ask Drake to explain or not. But seeing his defensive posture and the way Drake sounded—not angry, but resigned to inevitable disappointment—changed his mind. He couldn’t protect Drake or keep him safe, but he could let Drake keep his secrets.
“Monday you will come in early. Before practice. And we will go over some drills. For your focus.”
Drake straig
htened. His posture looked more confused than defensive. “Wait. What?”
“I can only do one thing to help you,” Misha said. “And that is to show you ways to improve focus. So you can pay attention to the things that....” A thousand wrong words, in English and Russian, danced through his head. “The things that you can control,” he finished carefully.
The silence stretched out for long enough that Misha became uncomfortable and wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. For all his bravado, Drake reminded Misha of an easily spooked cat lurking in a dark alley.
“You could ask me to tell you. I would.”
Misha fought the strangest urge to lean in and brush some of Drake’s too-long hair out of his eyes. Partly because it made him look like a punk, and partly because Drake’s defensiveness reminded him so much of himself. And for once thinking about that didn’t make him ashamed or sick to his stomach.
But it was because of his past that Misha knew better than to touch Drake, even in affection. Unlike Max, who accepted physical affection easily, even when it wasn’t sexual, Drake would make like the skittish cat and bolt. After hissing and biting Misha for daring to do it in the first place.
Misha understood that all too well. “I could,” he agreed. “But I won’t. If you do not want my help, you do not have to take it. But I am offering.”
Drake shoved his hands in the folds of his hoodie and swore under his breath. “It doesn’t matter, Coach. I’m a fuckup and you can just let me deal with it.”
Frustrated, Misha ran a hand roughly through his hair and wished he was better at talking to his players. “It does matter, and no you’re not. And I am sorry that I could not do what I promised.”
Drake’s head snapped up. “No. I—thanks for trying. It’s... it’s dumb. I should just get it together, like you said. I want to. I love this team.”
The conversation was not going as planned—inasmuch as Misha had a plan for the conversation. “Drake,” Misha said, keeping his voice careful and even. “It is not dumb, and that is not what I said. All right?”