Power Play

by Avon Gale

  Instead of answering, Drake kicked his heel back against the wall and stared off into space. Like he was looking for something in the darkness. “If I told you what it was, would you tell Belsey?”

  “No. And this discussion is over. Before practice, Monday morning. Two hours early. And, Drake?”

  “Yeah, Coach?”

  “You need a haircut. Get one.” Misha nodded toward the front door. “Let’s go inside.”

  When Max left to take his parents back to their hotel, Misha poured himself a glass of vodka and sat in his wonderfully, beautifully, peacefully quiet living room and thought about the day he’d had. It had been a bit stressful at times and involved too many conversations about feelings, but overall... he enjoyed it.

  He felt sad as he contemplated how long he’d spent in the US, surrounded by people who might have been friends if he stopped thinking he didn’t deserve any. Even before Max’s accident, Misha always thought it was better for everyone if he just kept to himself. But he was beginning to think he was wrong. He was beginning to think he was wrong about a lot of things.

  Max let himself in the side door near the carport, making as much noise as possible. It made Misha smile into his vodka glass.

  “Well, my parents basically love you,” Max said as he appeared in the doorway. He looked fresh faced from the cold—such as it was. His green eyes were bright and his dark hair was carelessly messy and as in need of a haircut as Drake’s. “Which I told you they would. They kept telling me how glad they were that we were friends.” Max’s grin was infectious. “My mom told me to thank you appropriately for the use of your house.”

  Misha unfolded himself from the couch and went to where Max was leaning casually against the doorway, giving him a fuck-me look if ever there was one.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Misha said and leaned in to trap him.

  “I thought you’d be into that.” Max dragged him forward with a hand in Misha’s shirt. “I probably still owe you a blowjob or two.”

  “Two? Your math is as good as your geography. Try twenty-two. That sounds about right.” He put his mouth near Max’s ear and said, “I have a better idea, though.”

  “Wait. Seriously?” Max pushed him back a little, but Misha mouthed at his neck just the way he liked, and Max changed his mind and pulled him back in. He tilted his head to give Misha more room. “There’s a better idea than blowjobs? What is it?”

  “You moaning for me while I fuck you.”

  There was a heartbeat of a pause, and then Max breathed out, “Jesus Christ, Misha. Finally.”

  Misha put his face in Max’s neck and gave a rueful laugh. At least he knew for sure that Max wanted it, given how Max wound all his limbs around Misha as if he were going to climb him. “Here?”

  Misha pulled back and gave him a strange look. “The bedroom, I thought. Yes?”

  “I’m good wherever,” Max told him. Then he kissed him and started pushing away from the wall.

  Misha turned them both and headed toward the bedroom, walking backward and allowing Max to push them where they needed to go.

  It had been awhile since Misha fucked anyone, but Max was too eager and didn’t give him any time to worry about it. He was all over Misha once they were on the bed, kissing him and pulling impatiently at Misha’s clothing at the same time. Misha kept Max on his back, because he wanted to be able to see his face when he fucked him. Misha sucked him to the point where Max promised him impossible things to “hurry up and get on with it, goddamn it, Misha.” Then he took his time getting Max ready with his fingers—enough that Max tried to kick him and pulled his hair amid all the moans.

  Misha finally moved between his legs. The condom was slick with lube and his blood pounded in his ears. He tried not to come just from the look Max gave him. Wide-eyed and flushed, Max panted and grabbed at Misha’s shoulders like he was anchoring himself. Despite all the filthy demands and the lewd moans, Max went tense when Misha pressed against him, and Misha stopped immediately, sensing the tension.

  “Don’t say anything. I want it. It’s just... this is different,” Max informed him, breathless. “Distract me.”

  “Distract you?” Misha groaned and put his forehead against Max’s. “I’m going to add bedroom talk to the list with geography and math.”

  “Oh, like you’re somehow better at it? I’ll give you geography, but I’ve never seen you do all that much math, and telling me how bad I am in bed is not proving that you’re better at sex talk than me.”

  Sex talk. Misha gave a strangled laugh, despite the way his body was trembling and how desperate he was to push himself inside Max. “You’re not bad in bed. Just talking when you’re there.”

  “This is so romantic,” Max said. He settled his hand on Misha’s neck. “How’s this for bad? I can tell how bad you want to fuck me, and it’s hot as hell. And I want it, but it’s not my fault you’re hung like a horse. So distract me from the first part so we can get to the one where you fuck me into the mattress and I moan like a porn star. How’s that? Better?”

  “I’d say maybe a B minus,” said Misha. He bit him gently on the shoulder and suppressed a laugh when Max pulled his hair again. But he knew what to do, so he switched to Russian and told Max how badly he wanted to fuck him and how good it was going to feel to be inside of him. He also took Max’s hand and carried it down, urging Max to stroke himself while he once again slowly pushed his cock against Max’s hole.

  Max made an appreciative noise and Misha felt him shudder beneath him. His legs fell open a bit wider so Misha could push inside him. It was probably for the best that Misha was so attuned to Max, because if he concentrated on how good it felt, how tight Max was, he would come before he got halfway inside of Max. Never mind the part where he fucked him hard, like he promised.

  He started slowly and stopped talking so he could kiss Max. He could feel Max’s knuckles against his stomach as Max slowly stroked his cock, and when he was finally inside, Max raised a hand and said, in a voice gone to hell and back, “Fist bump, coach.”

  Misha gave a choked laugh and fist-bumped him. Max’s grin was bright and wild, and Misha fucked him—slowly at first. He could tell when it went from mildly uncomfortable to something else when Max did indeed start moaning like a porn star.

  Misha shifted to his knees, held Max’s ankles in his hands, and watched in desperate fascination as Max went to pieces beneath him. He was shameless in his enjoyment and fisted the bedding beneath him. Misha leaned forward so he could rest Max’s ankles on his shoulders and take hold of his cock while he fucked him. It only took a few seconds before Max came all over his stomach, his muscles tightening and clenching so hard around Misha’s cock that he nearly saw stars. He fucked Max hard through his orgasm and finally fell forward, completely graceless while he drove hard into Max’s body. He lay fully on top of him, and Max’s sweat-slicked skin slid against his. He said something in Russian again, over and over, but it wasn’t on purpose, and he wasn’t even sure what it was.

  Max held him close and murmured something that was just as nonsensical, only in English. Misha couldn’t hear it through the roar in his ears. But Max’s arms around him felt nearly as good as his body tight around Misha’s cock, and it didn’t take long before Misha came with one last hard thrust and a muffled moan against Max’s neck.

  If sex had ever felt that good, Misha couldn’t remember it. He gently pulled out and kissed Max as best he could considering he was still fighting for breath. He was momentarily overwhelmed by emotion as he stared down at him.

  Max stared back, looking as open and vulnerable as Misha felt, and for a moment they were both quiet.

  For once Misha spoke first. “You’re welcome.”

  Max’s expression brightened into a smile, and he punched Misha weakly on the shoulder.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Spitfires played well as the calendar inched toward Christmas, and whatever Misha was doing with Drake for those extra practices was clearly pa
ying off. Drake was focused in net, and while he wasn’t quite his usual fiery self, he seemed to be at least on top of things. There were no more parking lot encounters with shady men—or at least none that Max was there to witness.

  Belsey spent most of the early part of December vacationing in Cabo San Lucas with Anna, the marketing intern. According to Kim, the actual marketing coordinator, Anna didn’t appear to market much of anything but her ass in tight skirts. But Kim said it was for the best, since Anna kept Belsey too busy to interfere with her attempts to market the Spitfires in a way that didn’t involve injury or bench brawls.

  Max assumed that Belsey would also be too busy sexing up interns in Cabo to worry much about the Spitfires, but that wasn’t true. One of the annoying things about Belsey was that he wasn’t a hands-off general manager. He liked to check in and see how things were going. He just didn’t think he needed to stay in the same country or respect things like international time zones to do so.

  Max worried about leaving Misha for Christmas, but he promised to go to his brother Scott’s house in St. Paul and had to leave his broody Russian boyfriend at home. He knew Misha would have been more than welcome to join them, considering how much both his parents liked him. But Max had no idea how to bring that up or whether he should tell his family about Misha before dragging him to holiday functions. Because if he did that—when he did that—he didn’t want there to be any doubt they were together.

  Max’s brother, Scott, was older than Max by four years. While Max took after their mother and was tall, athletic, and somewhat academically challenged, Scott was more like their father. He had a shorter, leaner frame and a talent for math and science. Scott was a seventh grade math teacher, and without him Max probably wouldn’t have passed math when he was in the seventh grade.

  Scott’s wife, Vanessa, was a warm, friendly woman with a beaming smile who always seemed to be pregnant. Max had two nephews, a niece, and—as he learned soon after putting his luggage down—another on the way. Damn it. He should have brought Misha after all. He could have just snuck his announcement in with Scott and Van’s.

  Vanessa and Suzanne Ashford had been close since the first moment they met. As Max watched the two of them giggling in the kitchen, he wondered again if his mother had liked Emma.

  She’d been perfectly nice to Emma. But Max couldn’t remember ever finding the two of them laughing or enjoying each other’s company. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Emma talk that much to Vanessa either. Scott had been married to Vanessa for almost ten years, and in some ways, Max knew her a lot better than he’d known his own fiancée.

  The adults sat around and drank bourbon-spiked eggnog and watched the kids open a few early gifts while they caught up with each other’s lives. Max obligingly flipped his niece and nephews over his shoulders, promised to play video games with Sam and Owen, and proudly looked at Schyler’s medals for figure skating. She was as athletic as her uncle Max and grandma Suzanne, as smart as her father and grandfather, and as imminently likeable as her mother. Her parents were already convinced Schyler would either be president or a cult leader.

  When the kids were distracted by the gifts and hyped up on sugar cookies, Max found himself watching his family and wondering how Misha would fit in if he were there. Would he flip the kids around? Maybe not. He was so tall he might accidentally pitch them into the ceiling fan. What would he say to little Schyler? Would he eat sugar cookies and drink eggnog? Did they have that in Russia? He’d have to ask. But it was clear that he was going to miss Misha even more than he thought, and not just for sex reasons either.

  He missed Misha’s quiet confidence and how he always knew the answer to any sort of random trivia question Max might have for him. How they’d lay in bed and read after having scorching hot sex. How Misha looked in his glasses.

  Max checked his phone every so often to see if he had any messages. He doubted Misha would send him one, because he seemed vaguely confused by technology—it took him six hours to send a text message—and Max knew Misha wouldn’t want to bother him.

  Max had no such compunctions, and he was a lot faster at texting because he didn’t just use his pointer finger.

  Do you like eggnog?

  I have never had any.

  Misha’s text messages were always complete sentences, included proper punctuation and spelling, and never utilized emoticons. Maybe that’s what always took him so long.

  Want to? I’ll bring you some home :)

  “Max? Got a girlfriend you’re not telling us about?”

  Max looked up and blushed hotly as he heard his brother’s teasing voice. Scott grinned at him. He was sitting on the couch, rubbing a hand idly over Vanessa’s belly. She didn’t look pregnant at all to Max, but he knew better than to ever say that to a woman. He didn’t even mention Vanessa’s shape when she was nine months pregnant with the twins. He might not be the smartest cookie in the box, but his mother hadn’t raised a fool.

  “You’re smiling like an idiot at your phone,” Scott clarified.

  “You do that when you’re playing Tetris Blitz,” his wife pointed out.

  “Only when I win,” Scott said and leaned in to kiss her. Then he turned his amused gaze back to Max. “Out with it, little bro. Who’s the lucky lady?”

  “I wasn’t texting a girl,” Max said, only half-aware of what he was saying. Mostly he was trying not to die of embarrassment at being caught sending text messages with a dopey grin on his face. How often did he do that? He texted Misha a lot. Was it always accompanied by an I’m-stupidly-in-love face?

  Oh, God. Love. He was in love. With Misha. And probably had been for longer than he realized. He stalled by lifting his cup and taking a sip of the eggnog.

  “Okay. Then who’s the lucky boy?” Scott said without missing a beat.

  Max choked on his eggnog, which was not an experience he ever wanted to repeat. It wasn’t that good when you tried drinking it normally. “What?”

  “It’s okay if Uncle Max likes boys,” Schyler piped up, appearing next to Max. “Sometimes boys like other boys and girls like other girls. Like best friends but with kissing.” She nodded. “And that’s okay because you can still be married and have a house and buy groceries. The Supreme Court said so.” She made the statement and then looked around in case anyone might dare to disagree.

  Max’s face was the approximate color of the red on the Spitfires’ logo. “Umm. I was just texting Misha.”

  “Oh. How is Misha?” his mother asked, smiling. “It was so kind of him to let us borrow his kitchen. What a nice man he is.”

  “Is he your best friend, Uncle Max?” Schyler asked, climbing on the couch next to him.

  Max smiled and ruffled his niece’s hair. Best friend was easy. He could definitely cop to that one. “Yup.”

  “Do you kiss him?”

  That, on the other hand....

  “Schyler,” Vanessa said, her tone gently chastising. “We don’t ask people who they kiss. Remember?” She gave Max an apologetic look. “She’s learning about families. It’s great because she’s absolutely fine with the idea of alternative relationships, but she likes to have everything all neat and orderly, so she asks a million questions.” Vanessa patted her husband on the knee. “I wonder where she gets that from.”

  “Sorry, Uncle Max,” Schyler said. She snuggled up next to him and patted him on the arm, mimicking her mother to a T. “But if he’s your best friend, maybe you should kiss him. My friend Evan has two daddies. I think they’re probably friends too. And I know they kiss sometimes because Evan told me so.”

  “Schyler,” Scott said, but he was doing that thing adults do when they’re trying not to laugh at something and sound stern instead. “Maybe go get that book you wanted to show Uncle Max. The one about hockey?”

  “Oh.” Schyler jumped up and hit her hand on her head like a television character. “Don’t go anywhere, Uncle Max.” She paused. “I won’t ask any more kissing questions if I can show you the book.�
��

  Max would have taken that deal even if the book were about geography instead of hockey “Sure, peanut.”

  She beamed at the nickname, then rushed off to get her book.

  “By show it to you, she means you’ll read it to her,” Scott warned. “I told you. She’s going to be a cult leader. But luckily it’ll just be the kind of cult that involves storybooks and candy.”

  “I can handle that,” Max laughed. His niece came back and settled next to him with a copy of The Magic Hockey Stick, which was actually pretty cute. But he took advantage of the fact she couldn’t read yet, pulled out his phone, and sent Misha a text message that said miss you.

  Because he did. But God, that was cheesy. Should he have done that? Just because he had the sudden realization of being in love with Misha didn’t mean it was cool to send sappy text messages.

  Max read to his niece because she wanted to know what his text message said and he had to distract her by reading something. But he relaxed when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He waited until Schyler was distracted by bedtime hugs and kisses and then checked to see what Misha said. It felt like an eternity. He felt like an idiot.

  Misha’s return message was in Russian, so Max had to copy the Cyrillic and translate it with the app he’d put on his phone. Apparently it was “and also you,” which made him realize with absolute certainty that he was probably going to have to talk to his parents about Misha during his visit. Because next year Max wanted him to be there—tall, awkward, probably broody, and forced to drink eggnog even if he didn’t like it. And he would have to read a book to Max’s niece, who would probably climb him like a tree.

  Well. It wasn’t like Max could blame anyone for that, considering how often he did it.

  The kids went to bed, and Max helped his mom clean up in the kitchen when she shooed Vanessa off with a wave and a stern reprimand to get some sleep. Suzanne kissed her on the cheek and watched her leave the kitchen with a fond smile.

  “You like her, huh,” Max said, carrying a few cups to the sink. Some were still eggnog-laden. Why did they even bother with this? They should just drink the bourbon and skip the... whatever eggnog actually was.