Power Play

by Avon Gale

  For once I want to make you feel good, not guilty.

  Now who was being angsty? Max gave himself a mental talking-to and shut out his obnoxious inner voice. Instead he concentrated on how Misha felt and how he looked as he came apart beneath Max’s hands and Max’s mouth.

  “You—it’s good, Max. Don’t stop,” Misha panted, and that was, just possibly, the hottest thing anyone had ever said to Max in bed.

  It wasn’t long before Misha gave a low moan and tensed, his thighs shaking, and tugged at Max’s hair like he was trying to pull Max off his cock.

  Max had no intentions of doing anything but finishing, and he’d done that before, too, though admittedly the memory was a little hazy. He would remember this, though—the way Misha grabbed his head with both hands, his thighs tensing as his stomach muscles went taut, his hips snapped forward, and he came hard in Max’s mouth.

  Max sat up and felt a little smug as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He liked how out of it Misha looked, the way he threw one arm over his eyes and tried to catch his breath.

  “See. I told you I’d done it before,” Max said. He gave Misha’s long, lean form a thoroughly appreciative once-over. He really wanted to know what all the tattoos said, but his cock was hard as a rock, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to take the time to find out.

  Misha dropped his arm and then reached out and tugged at Max’s hair. “Come here.”

  Max went.

  Misha kissed him, which Max didn’t expect, considering what he’d just done. But he kissed back enthusiastically, and when Misha pushed him onto his back, Max went easily and put his hands behind his head.

  The easy way Misha took off his jeans should have been his first clue that he was about to be totally outclassed. Because there was no question—no contest—that Max’s limited experience had absolutely nothing on Misha. Misha was really good at sucking cock. In a way that told Max that yes, Misha had done it before. A lot.

  Misha did things Max didn’t know were possible. He used his tongue, his hand, his mouth, and even his teeth. Max was so blown away that he couldn’t think. He couldn’t do anything but flail around and moan a lot. He started and stopped sentences like, “Yes, that’s—” and “God, that’s so—you’re—yes, oh—” Then he descended into incoherent moaning and came so hard he thought he saw stars behind his eyes.

  Afterward when Max had enough brainpower to remember things like blinking and breathing and talking, Misha gave him the world’s smuggest smile, and Max said, “Yeah. Fine. You deserve that. That’s why you’re the head coach, huh?”

  Misha smacked him on the stomach and groaned.

  Chapter Six

  “So tell me, gentlemen,” Belsey said. “What song should I use for the commercial featuring our new highlights? ‘Eye of the Tiger’? ‘One Night in Bangkok’?”

  “How about Tupac’s ‘Hit ’Em Up’?” Max suggested. He cleared his throat. “I’m just wondering why you’re so determined to use songs from the 80’s when there’s so many other decades to choose from. Also why the song about Bangkok? Toledo is in Ohio, not China.”

  Misha stood quietly and tried not to wince at Max’s forwardness and his clear lack of knowledge when it came to world geography.

  “Ashford, either shut up or get out of my office,” Belsey snapped. “And go listen to the song. It’s got that whole thing about tough men taking a tumble.”

  Misha felt his neck turn hot and very studiously avoided looking at Max. He could hear Max make a noise that sounded like an hysterical laugh hidden in a very nonconvincing cough, but Belsey had run out of patience. He glared at Misha and didn’t notice. “You know, if you hadn’t won every single game on the road trip after that farce of a bench brawl, I’d have fired you both.”

  Misha nodded, but he didn’t believe it. Belsey was fond of saying things like “I could fire you both.” But he didn’t want to test the theory, and he hoped Max would stay quiet while Belsey addressed him. Belsey didn’t seem to be in the mood for Max’s clever tongue.

  Of course Belsey didn’t know quite how clever Max’s tongue could be. That Misha did was not something he should be thinking about. Tough men taking a tumble indeed. Misha wondered if Belsey knew that song was from a musical about chess. Somehow he doubted it.

  “You wanted something new for the highlights,” Misha said. “We gave you wins. Some goals. Flashy saves. Yes?”

  “Sure. Yeah.” Belsey waved a hand and his obnoxious gold watch caught the afternoon sunlight. Misha doubted that Belsey really understood hockey. What had made him buy a team and think he could manage it? “We still have a losing record.”

  Belsey never failed to set Misha’s teeth on edge. “We have more games to play,” he pointed out. Maybe that was a disrespectful thing to say. Certainly it would be if he were at home in Russia. But he wasn’t in Russia, and maybe America had rubbed off on him more than he thought.

  That of course made him think of Max again—that hotel room, the second time, Max sprawled naked on top of him, kissing and grinding until they both came, and Max licking his tattoos while Misha tried to remember in English what they meant so he could tell him.

  “Samarin? Did you hear what I just said?” Belsey gave an exaggerated sigh. “For fuck’s sake, does anyone ever listen to me?”

  When you say things that are worth hearing, maybe we’ll start. “Yes?”

  “I will admit that your little stunt in Toledo coincided with an increase in ticket sales once word got out. Goddamn YouTube.” Belsey drummed his fingers on the desk. He wore too many rings for a man. It made Misha think unpleasantly of his father. “Don’t get me wrong. It was minute. As in tiny,” he said, and that last part he addressed not to Misha, but to Max. As if maybe Max didn’t know what that word meant.

  Belsey thinks Max is stupid. Misha felt a hot rush of anger, but it wasn’t as though Max would be all that offended. Max was the first person to admit he wasn’t that book smart and that he’d get lost getting to the arena if it weren’t for Google Maps.

  “But there was an increase. So that’s something. And I know you’re going to get all fucking huffy and say that it’s because you won some games, blah blah blah. And maybe you’re right. Only one way to find out. Win some more. Now get out of my office. I have a meeting with the marketing intern.”

  They had a marketing intern? That was new.

  “Does this mean,” Max asked him, a few minutes later, “that if we do win games and don’t sell more tickets, he’ll tell us to make the guys get in fights with the other team’s bench?”

  Misha groaned inwardly. That was a distinct possibility.

  “And I like how he doesn’t think I know what minute means,” Max huffed. “I’m not a genius, but give me a break.”

  “He’s an idiot,” Misha said with a bit more vitriol than was warranted. “And he knows nothing about hockey.” He didn’t know if that was true, because Belsey seemed less interested in the actual sport and more in revenue. Which would be fine if he weren’t trying to manage the team instead of just owning it.

  Max blinked, obviously taken aback at Misha’s uncharacteristic display of emotion. “You really don’t like the guy, huh? Is it ’cause of that commercial? I mean, that’d be enough for me to not like him.”

  It’s because he hired you not to be a coach, but a sideshow. And he does not respect you, because he does not think you are anything more than a four-second clip on YouTube. Because that was the truth of it. Wasn’t it? Misha was hired because of the accident, maybe, but he’d been coaching for several years and had a career that spanned two decades.

  Max had a three-year stint in the majors and a year on the coaching staff at Duluth. He had experience, but if Misha hadn’t been hired, would Max have been?

  Was it always going to be that way—with one of their careers at the mercy of the other?

  Misha turned suddenly and grabbed Max’s arm. He strode purposefully through the locker room to his office, unceremoniously pulled
Max inside, and slammed the door. Then he pushed Max up against it and resisted the very strong urge to kiss him.

  “Listen to me,” Misha said. He stared down into Max’s wide, green eyes. “We are going to make this team win. Not for Belsey, but for us.” You’re going to have a career if it kills me. Max wanted to be a hockey coach, so Misha would make sure he was one. Belsey probably intended to fire Max after the season if it didn’t go well. Misha would not allow another opportunity to pass Max Ashford by. Not again.

  “Okay,” Max said very slowly. “Wow. You just went all intense on me. Uh. Is there a reason?”

  Yes. You think the best of everyone and you shouldn’t. Not always. Sometimes there are reasons to hate people. Sometimes they really don’t have your best interests at heart.

  “I’m tired of worrying what he is going to do. We can’t think about him.” That was close enough to the truth. “We have a hockey team to coach. That is all we should concentrate on.”

  “I like how you’re telling me this as if I don’t agree with you,” Max said. He hooked a finger around Misha’s tie and tugged him in. “You brought me here to make out, didn’t you?”

  Misha needed a moment to parse that. “Why would I do that?”

  “Wow. It’d be better if you said yes and just kissed me. It would improve your chances of getting laid later. That’s what I’m saying.”

  Misha kissed him with his hands on Max’s shoulders to keep him pinned to the door. Anger on Max’s behalf burned through him like a wick catching fire. It felt good.

  Though that might also have had something to do with how hard Max was and the fact he was already pushing his hips forward. As if they were alone in a hotel room. As if they could do that here.

  Misha pulled away. They were both breathing hard. Max spoke first, of course. Indomitable was a good word for Max. “This doesn’t seem like such a bad idea after all, when it means we get to make out after meetings with Belsey.” He grinned. His mouth was red, and his clothes were slightly askew from being manhandled.

  It was a good look on him. I want to fuck him. Here. Against the door. Over my desk. Everywhere.

  Max’s grin turned sly. “You seriously have no idea how hot the look you’re giving me right now is.”

  If it was in any way as hot as the way Max was looking at him—like he wanted to be devoured—Misha had some idea. He pulled back and tried to make himself look presentable. “Come to my house,” he said as he idly smoothed his tie. “Tonight. I will make you dinner.”

  Max reached out and poked him lightly on the shoulder. “I think it’s going to be a problem if this is what happens when Belsey makes you mad. ’Cause I’m gonna want him to do it all the time.”

  Misha smiled at him. With teeth. “Seven o’clock. Ask your Google Maps how to get there so you’re not late.”

  Misha bought a house in Spartanburg when he signed his three-year contract with the Spitfires, because it seemed to make more sense than renting. He had played professional hockey for twenty years, and while he didn’t make as much money as some, he made enough. He invested wisely and he had no dependents and very few bills. It made sense to have a place of his own, even if he thought it was way too big for him.

  The house appealed to him because it looked so quintessentially American. The realtor called it “arts and crafts style,” but Misha didn’t understand what that meant. It looked to him like a house in a storybook, where maybe three bears or a witch might live, with dormer windows and pitched roof. It had hardwood floors and a new kitchen, which was good because Misha liked to cook.

  With three bedrooms and two and a half baths, it was an absurd amount of house for one person. He would never understand this very American need to have so many rooms, and it made him feel vaguely wasteful not to have a purpose for all of the space. There was also a loft room upstairs with its own bath. It could be a guest room—if Misha ever had any guests.

  But he was having a guest for dinner, so maybe he was wrong. But if Max spent the night, Misha did not want him to sleep upstairs. And Max wouldn’t want to either, considering there was nothing in there but a few boxes.

  Misha made pirozhki with mushrooms, onions, and rice. He’d been in America long enough to gain an appreciation for easy-to-make foods—spaghetti, for example—but that was one Russian dish he’d been making since he first had to cook for himself. It was his mother’s recipe or maybe he just made it up.

  Max arrived exactly at seven, no doubt conditioned to arrive on time by years of playing hockey. He was dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt that was a shade too tight. Misha appreciated how it showed off Max’s physique, and he wondered if that was why Max had chosen to wear it.

  “Hi,” Max said, handing Misha a bottle. “I brought you this.”

  It was vodka. Smirnoff. Misha had a lot to teach Max, and not all of it was about coaching. Apparently he would have to add vodka to the list. “Thank you,” he said, too polite to say anything else. He could always cook with it. “Come in, please.”

  Max did so and glanced around with unabashed curiosity. “This is not what I thought your house would look like, Misha.”

  Misha went to put the Smirnoff away in the kitchen, and Max followed at a slower pace, still looking around at the house, taking in the sleek, contemporary leather furniture, the dark hardwood floors, the cool, trendy gray color of the walls and their crisp white crown molding. “What did you think it would look like?”

  “I don’t know,” Max said. He shook his head with a laugh and hopped up on a barstool at the island. He immediately looked comfortable in a way that Misha found astounding. Misha had been in the country for years, but he had not, for the most part, made friends with Americans. It was hard to imagine how he managed not to, given how friendly they were. “Did you buy this place, or are you renting?”

  “I bought it,” Misha said, a touch defensively. “It was a good investment.” He opened the freezer and took out a bottle of good vodka—the kind they did not sell in the gas station. He found two glasses, poured them both a drink, and pushed Max’s toward him.

  Max raised his eyebrows. “You aren’t going to put any sweet and sour mix in it and make me a Kamikaze?” He laughed at the look of horror Misha couldn’t quite hide. “I’m kidding. Also it’s really sweet that you’re not mentioning I brought over the Bud Light of your country’s sacred booze.”

  Misha felt his ears turn red, and he hid a smile in his glass as he took a shot of the vodka. “Is this an American custom? Hmm? Bring a gift that insults your host and see if he notices?”

  “Duh. We’re dicks.” Max winked at him. “Charming, though. At least that’s what the world thinks about Americans. Or that’s what they thought in Montreal, anyway.”

  Misha couldn’t help but look away, though he knew he shouldn’t. He knew Max did not like him to dwell on their past.

  “Misha—”

  “I know that you forgive me,” Misha said, interrupting him before he got the “just let it go and be cool” lecture. “And I know that it was an accident. But I cannot forget it happened. I am still sorry that it did. It was me that knocked you to the ice. And yes, Max. That makes me feel bad. And maybe it always will. But I do not think it does either of us any good to pretend it didn’t happen.”

  Max looked briefly abashed. “Probably not. I just.... You can’t know what life has in store for you, Misha. I got to play three years in the most insane, hockey-crazed city in the world. With batshit crazy fans who bleed the rouge, blanc et bleu. And now I’m here. So no. I don’t need to forget it, but I don’t think it does either of us any good to dwell on it either.”

  Misha stared at him, unsure how to respond to Max’s perpetual optimism. He settled on “Your French accent is atrocious.”

  “Fuck off,” Max laughed. “God, I’m awful at languages. Just as bad as I am at geography. See, you can look at it that way. At least you saved me from having to learn more French.” Max gave an exaggerated sigh. “Stop bro
oding. Is that what you invited me over to do?”

  “No. But then you showed up with bad vodka.” Misha kept his face expressionless. “Old Russian maxim. Plans change depending on liquor.”

  “Uh-huh.” Max grinned. “You’re hilarious, Samarin. What’s for dinner and can I help with anything?”

  Misha shook his head. “No. It is all right. I invited you. That means I will cook.”

  “Old Russian maxim?” Max took another sip of his vodka. “This is good. Without the sweet and sour even.”

  Misha didn’t dignify that with a response. He poured them both more vodka and went back to the pirozhki. They spoke idly about the team, about Belsey, and even made suggestions for fight-themed songs they could use for a theoretical bench-brawl commercial.

  The pirozhki were in the oven, and Misha was taking a drink when Max asked, “So, did you leave Russia because you’re gay?”

  Misha dropped the glass on the countertop. It didn’t break, but it rolled dangerously toward the edge before Misha caught it. He took a towel and carefully mopped up the spill.

  “Umm,” Max said, clearing his throat. “That was... was that just, like, ironic that you dropped that glass right then?”

  “Why... why would you say that?” Misha asked, still not looking at him. He could feel sweat beading on his brow as his stomach twisted unpleasantly. He resisted the urge to suck the alcohol off the paper towel, and threw it away instead.

  “Well, umm. ’Cause of what we’re doing? And you know,” Max continued, oblivious to Misha’s internal struggle. “Because you were so good at it.”

  That wasn’t at all what Misha expected him to say. He turned around, his brows drawn. “That is why you think I am gay?”

  “Well, I mean,” Max hedged. “I just figured gay guys were probably better than other guys at stuff involving dicks. Better than, say, bisexual bartenders in Mexico.” Max’s face was bright red. “All that practice.”

  Misha laughed. Max thought Misha was gay because he was good at sucking cock. No other reason. Something as warm as vodka burned through Misha. It settled his stomach and cooled the sweat on his brow. “Yes. I left Russia because I am gay.”