Crashing the Net

by Wayland, Samantha

  Damn kid was stubborn. Why did that make Alexei want to smile?

  “I insist. I can help you find an apartment tomorrow. I know a place. Clean. Decent rent.” Safe.

  “Thanks, really, but my budget is probably too small for anything you have in mind.”

  Alexei knew roughly how much Mike was making, but he didn’t ask where the money was going. Not his business. “This building will work. Now, come on. I still want a beer, even if it’s at my place.”

  Mike hesitated. “You sure?”

  The only thing Alexei was sure of was that he’d lost his damn mind. Even as he was nodding and telling Mike he was more than welcome, Alexei was calculating how to get Mike’s enticing ass back out of his apartment as quickly as possible.

  Chapter Two

  Mike sat in the cab of Alexei’s gigantic pickup truck, trying to make sense of the deserted warehouse looming above of them. He thought Alexei had been taking them to Alexei’s home, but he’d driven them here. Now, large steel doors slowly parted to reveal a huge, barren cavern, lit only by their headlights.

  Alexei drove inside, parked and hit the remote to close the doors behind them. He plucked a foot-long Maglite from his glove box and jumped from his truck.

  “Come on.”

  Mike grabbed his bag and chased the beam of Alexei’s flashlight to the back corner of the building and an ancient industrial elevator that could easily have fit Mike’s mid-sized Toyota inside.

  “Where the hell are we going?”

  Alexei laughed. “You’ll see.”

  At least the lift had a light. That was about all it had going for it, though. It rattled and swayed alarmingly as it delivered them up to the fourth floor. Mike had to focus on not squeaking like a little girl with every jolt. Finally, they came to a stop and Alexei pried open the enormous doors.

  Mike stared down a long hallway made of partially finished walls draped in plastic tarps, illuminated by bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

  What the fuck is this place?

  Every horror movie Mike had ever watched replayed in his head. It was surely a coincidence that the psycho killer in those Halloween movies wore a goalie mask, right?

  He trailed Alexei down the hallway, painfully aware that he was the new guy in town who’d stupidly followed a man he didn’t know right to his lair. And no one knew where he was. Or who he was with. Surely Alexei wouldn’t carve him up into little pieces and leave the Ice Cats’ defense down a man. Right?

  They arrived at a wide, steel door.

  The kind you could claw at for months and never get out.

  “This is my house,” Alexei announced. He threw the heavy door open and all Mike’s worries over his pending demise disappeared.

  Before him was a huge kitchen, gleaming with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances, including a stove that somehow suited the name emblazoned across the front—Viking. A wall of windows looked out across the city streets to the river and reflected the light of the funky fixtures above the kitchen table and counters—all suspended from the heavy steel girders holding up the twenty-foot ceiling above.

  To the right was the living room, vaguely separated from the dining room by the enormous sectional couch and the sheer amount of space around the enormous table. Reading lamps, wood floors, and area rugs made what should have been a harsh, industrial space welcoming.

  “Come on, I’ll show you where to throw your stuff,” Alexei said.

  Mike snapped his mouth shut—how long had he been standing there with it hanging open?—and followed Alexei down a hallway. They walked past an office, a bathroom with a cool glass-block shower, a bedroom with a gigantic bed that Mike wasn’t going to think about again—much—and on to a smaller bedroom.

  “You can crash here.”

  Mike dropped his bag. “Thanks. This place is great.”

  “Thank you,” Alexei said with a smile. “I just moved in.”

  Mike wanted to ask how Alexei had found such a bizarre and amazing home, but didn’t want to seem rude or nosey. Mike was definitely going to have to apartment hunt on his own, though, because if this was what Alexei was used to, the place he had in mind for Mike would probably be way outside his budget.

  Alexei walked back to the kitchen and went straight for the fridge. He needed a beer.

  Grabbing two, he opened them both and plunked one down on the counter. “Here. Just don’t tell the cops I’m corrupting a minor.”

  Mike stopped gaping at the stove and shot Alexei a dirty look. “I’m twenty-two.”

  Ten years younger than Alexei. “All right, kid. Then there’s your beer. You had supper?”

  “No, the nursery only gave me a bottle and some gruel before they sent me to the arena.”

  Alexei stuck his head back into the fridge and smirked. The kid had some grit.

  “How about an omelette?”

  “Uh…sure.”

  Alexei looked over his shoulder. “You could try to sound less surprised that I know how to cook.”

  “I just figured it must have been tough to learn when you were young. What with dinosaur eggs being so big and all.”

  Alexei laughed. Definitely some grit. He grabbed the ingredients he needed to make dinner and put it all on the island. He shoved the peppers, a knife and a cutting board at Mike. “Here, chop these. Then you can set the table.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  Alexei barely suppressed a shudder. “Don’t call me that.” His eyes dipped to where Mike’s T-shirt clung to his flat belly and tight abs. Alexei wasn’t feeling in the least bit paternal.

  “Sorry,” Mike said, his laughter gone.

  Shit, now he had that sad-eye thing going again. Alexei fucking hated it. He yanked out the drawer full of his cast-iron pans and it squealed in protest.

  Alexei got an idea. Wiping the smirk from his face, he turned to his houseguest. “Hey, can you come here a minute?”

  Mike put down his knife and circled the counter. “Yeah?”

  “This drawer is squeaking.”

  Mike hesitated at his side. “Okay. What can I do to help?”

  Alexei grabbed the taller man in a headlock and dug his fingers behind Mike’s ears.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Mike protested, shoving at him before standing up all the way and almost lifting him off his feet.

  Alexei held on for all he was worth. The kid was strong. “Hold still. I need some lube. I bet you’ve still got some back here somewhere.”

  Mike’s laughter echoed off the high ceilings. “Yeah, and whose fault would that be, Belov?”

  Alexei grinned. “Yours, newbie.”

  Mike woke up the next morning and couldn’t remember where the hell he was. Not that this was anything new. He’d been traveling with one team or another for years, and waking up in bizarre hotel rooms was pretty standard.

  But this didn’t look like a hotel room. And he swore he smelled someone cooking French toast.

  Then he remembered.

  Alexei.

  Mike flopped onto his back and scrubbed his hands through his hair, trying not to conjure up an image of his host, nor vividly recall the night they’d spent on his couch drinking beer, watching hockey, and just shooting the shit. At some point, Alexei had stretched his arm out along the tall cushions, just to get comfortable, and Mike had fought the urge to lean into the long curve of his body, acutely aware of how big the couch was and how he’d chosen to sit right next to Alexei.

  He could only assume Alexei was being polite when, after getting them another round, he’d returned to the same spot instead of choosing a more appropriate seat on the other side of the sectional.

  Mike huffed and sat up in bed, glaring balefully down at his stubbornly enthusiastic morning wood, willing it to subside.

  It took a while and a focused and detailed mental review of the childbirth video he’d been forced to watch in eighth grade biology class.

  Worked every time.

  Jumping from the bed, he
threw on his clothes and followed the amazing smells to the kitchen.

  He found his host standing at the stove, his bare back to the door. Flannel pajama bottoms barely clung to his hips and the smooth swell of his ass. Mike stared hungrily at the twin dimples hovering on either side of Alexei’s spine, forgetting to breathe until his lungs seized up and he made a small choking sound.

  Alexei turned.

  “Good morning,” Mike gasped, hoping like hell his voice sounded just-woken-up scratchy and not like he’d swallowed his tongue. Because damn, the view from the front was even better.

  “Good morning.” The rough timbre of Alexei’s voice rubbed over Mike’s skin, making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

  This was so bad. He needed to get a handle on himself.

  Mike had known since the first blush of puberty that he was gay. When the guys had started talking about girls, he’d still been thinking about the guys. And from there it had only gotten more obvious.

  To him, anyway. Everyone else just saw a hockey player. Which, apparently, meant “straight guy.”

  It had taken a long time for him to really accept that he wanted something different than what was expected of him. And truth be told, what he wanted more than anything or anyone else he’d ever met, was standing right in front of him.

  Which really only proved he was a fucking idiot. Anyone would think he’d learned his lesson after what had happened in Quebec City the night before last, but Alexei made him want to forget.

  It was way more than that body, too—spectacular though it was. Or the vivid green eyes and curling brown hair, which was wild with bed-head and just fucking begging Mike to run his fingers through it.

  It was that Alexei looked right at him. When Alexei talked, joked, just checked to see if Mike wanted some orange juice, he never failed to catch Mike’s gaze. He didn’t talk at Mike, he spoke to him. Saw him.

  Last night they’d talked about shit that wasn’t hockey, which was so unusual for Mike that he’d stumbled through the first half hour of the conversation. Thankfully, the game on TV had held Alexei’s attention so that he couldn’t see Mike’s red cheeks and twitchy hands.

  But then Alexei had asked him about home, pretending not to notice when Mike went on about his sister, Jayne, and how proud he was of her. They talked about his last team. How long ago Alexei had come over from Russia, completely alone, at age eighteen. Alexei had been surprised Mike’s father had moved to Kingston with him, but hadn’t gotten that look in his eye. The one that said Mike was a loser for living with his dad until he was twenty-two years old. Alexei hadn’t even questioned it when Mike said it hadn’t been his idea, nor his preference, but that his dad wasn’t one of those psycho hockey-dads. Not really.

  Alexei understood just how fucking great it was that Mike was on his own now. He had teased him for not being able to cook anything more complicated than a grilled cheese and his plan to live on protein shakes until he could learn. And nothing beat Alexei’s glee when Mike had admitted he liked to play chess, even if in the same sentence he’d had to confess he sucked at it. His tongue had been tied in knots, his chest tight, as Alexei leaned into him to point out the marble chess set on its own little table across the room.

  This morning over breakfast the subject was hockey, and that was proving to be almost as foreign an experience as last night had been. Mike, of course, had spent most of his life either playing or talking about the sport, but this was different. Alexei asked him questions and listened to his answers. Like he cared. Like he believed what Mike said without checking with a coach or glancing at Mike’s father, always over Mike’s shoulder. Until now. And fuck, why hadn’t Mike figured out just how much he’d learned up until now? What he knew. Because after two hours of debating everything from the best way to tape a stick, to whether or not Sidney Crosby was hockey’s version of the Second Coming, he realized it was a hell of a lot. And Alexei—he looked like he respected that. Like he might want to talk more about shit like this.

  Mike had never felt less invisible.

  Which was a bitch, since he had to keep hiding who he really was for all he was worth.

  Somehow, Mike managed to get through breakfast without embarrassing himself, mostly thanks to the table concealing the unfortunate fit of his sweatpants whenever he looked too long at Alexei. Hell, he pitched a tent worthy of the LL Bean catalog when Alexei had leaned forward, his gaze narrowed as he tried to make his point. Mike had happily argued right back, confident that his message, his idea, would be heard.

  He would have gladly sat here talking all day, priapism be damned. Which meant, of course, he probably should go.

  Alexei seemed to have the same idea, though Mike didn’t doubt it was for a different reason. Less than an hour after they’d cleaned up breakfast, Mike was signing the lease on a studio apartment a few blocks from Alexei’s warehouse. The building was clean and safe, and the rent was insanely cheap. Mike suspected Alexei had convinced the building manager to give him a good deal, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth and ask how.

  New keys in hand, he and Alexei left to retrieve his car from the arena lot. He spent the first half of the drive telling himself not to read anything into the fact Alexei had opened the car door for him.

  He couldn’t pretend he didn’t like it, though.

  They pulled up beside his car in the parking lot and Alexei eyed the old Toyota, stuffed to the gills with boxes and dwarfed by Alexei’s truck. Mike wondered when he’d started to think of big trucks as being sexy.

  Alexei’s voice cut into his wandering thoughts. “Where are you storing your furniture?”

  “I don’t have any yet. I’ll have to go shopping over the next couple weeks.”

  “Where will you sleep?”

  “I have a sleeping bag.”

  Mike had one hand on the door handle, about to thank Alexei and make his escape, when Alexei hit the gas and pulled back out onto the street.

  “Where are we going?” Mike asked.

  “Shopping.”

  Mike kept his eyes glued to the road as heat crawled up his neck and into his cheeks. He had no money. Like, none. His plan had been to buy a blow-up mattress at Target. That and the stuff in his car would get him through the first few months. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll take care of it later.”

  Alexei kept driving as if Mike hasn’t spoken.

  Mike discreetly pulled out his phone and tried to determine how much room he had on his credit card.

  Shit shit shit.

  In his panic, it took Mike a while to notice they’d left the city.

  His over-active imagination allowed his serial killer highlight reel to run through his mind again, even as he smirked at the absurdity of it. Alexei would never hurt him.

  He was about to ask what stores were out this way when Alexei turned into a massive storage facility. Concrete bunkers lined with garage doors stretched as far as the eye could see.

  “What are we doing here?”

  Alexei parked in front of a large door and jumped from his truck. “Come on.”

  Mike followed, confused, and stood by while Alexei rolled open the storage unit door. Mike was still trying to sort out what the hell they were doing when Alexei gestured for him to help. With a few tugs, they pulled a full-size bed frame from the pile, soon followed by a mattress and box spring, a dresser, two lamps, a couch, and a decent area rug.

  “What is all this stuff?” Mike asked, afraid the answer was obvious.

  “Yours,” Alexei replied gruffly.

  “I can’t.”

  Alexei pinned him with his sharp green gaze. “You will.”

  When Mike opened his mouth to protest, Alexei waved it off.

  “Use this until you get your own stuff. I don’t need it, as you can see.”

  “But—”

  “Michael.”

  At Alexei’s stern command, a wholly inappropriate curl of arousal unfurled in Mike’s belly. He loved the way Ale
xei’s accent added a lilt to his name, particularly since this was the first time Alexei had called him anything other than kid.

  He opened his mouth, but his voice cut off when Alexei wrapped his big, warm hand around the back of his neck.

  “Shut up.”

  “Okay.”

  Chapter Three

  Mike spread his knees, stuck his ass in the air, and did his frog stretch. Just like he had done on the ice before every game since he could remember. Just like he would again in a week’s time when he returned to Moncton. It didn’t make any difference that they were in Quebec City. That he hadn’t been here since he’d stopped on this way to Moncton, his plans for that night having gone going terribly wrong.

  Nor did it matter that it was the day before Christmas Eve and his father had come to watch the game, and then to drive Mike home afterwards for their short holiday break. A few days off should have been something to look forward to, but for Mike, it would be his own little hell.

  He kicked out his right leg and gritted his teeth when his groin pulled, just a little. He needed to stop his brain and focus before he hurt himself. Or worse, fucked up this game.

  He finished his stretches carefully, counting his breaths and calming his mind as he prepared to jump to his feet. Every game-night for the four months he’d been with the Ice Cats, there’d been one more step in his pre-game routine. It wasn’t exactly what anyone would call standard practice. No one else on the team even knew about it, or if they did, they hadn’t said a word. Probably didn’t know what it meant. Hell, Mike didn’t know what it meant. But it was the one thing—more than practice, conditioning, pep talks from the coach, or years of playing—that got him ready to bring his best to the game.

  He cut his eyes to the goal and found Alexei patiently waiting. His lips twitched, then he winked.

  Mike’s heart lurched, just like always.

  I’m a fool.

  He and Alexei were friends. Close friends, but that was all they were. It was a lecture he gave himself on an almost daily basis anymore. When they watched a game together from their customary spots right next to each other on the couch. When they went out with the team and were smashed together in the corner booth of one bar or another. When Mike leaned his elbows on the table, laughing with his friends and teammates and trying not to feel the heat of Alexei’s arm stretched across the back of his chair.