by Avon Gale
“Of course,” Suzanne said, reaching out to take the cups from Max. “We can’t put those in the dishwasher. They’re china.”
“Why do people have cups you can’t wash?” Max asked, handing one over and picking up a towel for the drying he knew he’d be doing shortly.
“You can wash them, son. You just have to do them by hand,” his mother said, shaking her head. “I worry about you.” Her teasing tone said she was kidding, but Max fell silent as they worked in companionable silence.
“Did you like Emma?”
It was clear he’d surprised her with the question. “What makes you ask?”
He looked out the window at the glow of the moon off the still-falling snow, which he absolutely did not miss in the slightest living in South Carolina. Still, it was a good thing he hadn’t brought the Jeep. “You never.... The way you are with Vanessa. You weren’t like that with Emma.”
“Well, Scott’s been married to Vanessa for ten years,” his mother said, not looking at him. She was scrubbing very intently at the china cup, more than it probably needed. “I didn’t really get to know Emma all that well.”
“It’s okay if you didn’t like her, Mom.”
Suzanne handed him a cup and then studied her son with serious eyes. “I didn’t dislike her, Max. Like I said, I barely knew her. She wasn’t an easy girl to get to know.”
That was true. Max remembered their last conversation—the way she sat so perfectly straight in the chair, dressed to the nines while she coolly and calmly ended their engagement. “I’m sorry, Max. It’s just that we each brought certain expectations into this relationship, and if you can’t keep yours, then I can’t be expected to keep mine.” It was eerily similar to what his agent said when he terminated Max’s contract.
“Vanessa is... well, she’s the perfect match for your brother. She keeps him from being too serious. She adores him and their children....”
“You don’t think Emma adored me?” Max asked. But did he really need to? Someone who adored you didn’t treat your relationship like a business deal.
“I think Emma.... Oh, hell,” she muttered and turned with a raised chin to face Max with just as much attitude as Isaac Drake. “No, Max. I didn’t like her, and I don’t think she adored you in the way someone should adore you. I think she adored the life she expected you to give her.”
Max wished she had said something, but he didn’t mention that. It was all over and done with, and anyway, what would he have said if she tried? “It’s okay. I mean, I realized I wasn’t as sad as I should be when she broke things off. That probably means we didn’t have what Scott and Vanessa have. Or what you and Dad do.”
“I’m sorry, Max,” his mom said, placing a hand on his arm. “I wanted to adore her like I do Vanessa, but it never happened. I’m sorry if that came across. I always hoped that in time I’d come to see whatever it was that made you love her, but when it was over between you two... I admit I was relieved.” She chewed on her lip. “Is that horrible? Are you going to sign up for therapy and talk about how awful I am?”
Max put an arm around her shoulders and drew her in for a brief hug. She smelled like warmth and happiness and home—and kind of like bourbon. “Nah. I mean, don’t you think if I really loved her, I would have missed her more than I did? I was mad at her for taking off, but I think I wasn’t even all that surprised. Mostly I just missed....” Max faltered, unsure what to say.
“You missed getting some?” His mother raised her eyebrows, then snorted. “You’re not fifteen. We can admit you have sex, Max. Do you think your father and I found you and your brother in cabbages?”
“No. But I don’t.... That’s not what I meant,” he mumbled. “I missed having someone around. Y’know? Someone to talk to. I hated selling that house ’cause it was so badass, but I really didn’t want to live there alone.” Well, that sounded pathetic.
His mother didn’t seem to think so. “You’ve always been a bit like me that way. Extroverted. It was one reason why you were always such a good teammate, and I imagine, why your players like you so much. You make people happy.” She smiled. “And people make you happy. And you always see the best in everyone, so that’s why I always thought whatever it was that you loved about Emma, maybe I’d eventually see it.”
Max blushed, though that was nice to hear. His parents had always been generous with praise without overdoing it and critical without being harsh. It was a difficult balance, but one he hoped he’d been able to manage with his own team. “Thanks, Mom.” He’d learned a lot more about relationships from his parents than he realized—and not just romantic ones either.
“You’re welcome.” She slid him a look. “And I know there’s a reason you brought that up. What is it?”
Max’s heart hammered. He set the china cup down on the counter and gripped it with both hands, breathing hard. “I think—no, I know. I’m in love with someone. For real this time. Like you and Dad, or Scott and Vanessa.”
She smiled at him, her eyes misting over, and pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh, honey. With Misha?”
Max blinked at her, stunned. “Um.”
“Max.” She giggled a little and reached out to hug him. “You might not know this, but you couldn’t stop looking at him. The whole time we were there for Thanksgiving. He walked in the room, and your face lit up.”
Oh, Jesus Christ. Max’s face wasn’t so much lit up as it was on fire. He swallowed hard. “Is that... is it okay?”
“I won’t lie and say it’s not a surprise, but of course it’s okay.” She pulled back a little. “Schyler’s feelings are the same as my own, honey. There’s pretty much nothing better than waking up every morning and kissing your best friend.”
Max’s eyes stung, and he was happy in a very simple way for his parents and what they had together—and for his awesome mother, who wasn’t throwing him out for admitting he was in love with a man. Even if he hadn’t told the man in question that just yet.
“At first I was just glad you were friends with him, because that poor boy. He seems so sad, and you can tell it just eats him up, what happened.”
The only thing that saved Max from sinking through the floor in sheer embarrassment was imagining Misha’s face if he were to hear that. “Mom, he’s forty years old. Not a boy.”
“Well.” His mother waved a hand. “It’s all relative. I don’t want you to worry. We liked Misha. And this is... different. But I’ll get used to it.” She smiled and then winked. “And I guess you really do have a thing for blonds.”
“Mom!”
She patted him on the shoulder. “I know. I’m awful. And before you ask.... No. I’m not telling your father or your brother about this. That’s up to you, when you want them to know.”
Max didn’t believe that for a second—at least about her not telling his father—but he gave his mom a hug and rushed out of the kitchen with a mumbled good-night. He was staying in Schyler’s room, and she was bunking with her brothers, much to their dismay, so Max could have a bed. It was a twin bed, sized for a four-year-old girl, but it was better than the old sofa downstairs in the half-finished basement. Or so his brother claimed.
Max changed into pajama pants and a T-shirt, brushed his teeth in the bathroom, and went back to his niece’s room. Like just about every other little girl in America, Schyler was obsessed with Frozen and My Little Pony, but she also had some Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles as well as a few Transformers strewn about—the old cartoon, not the Michael Bay version, thankfully. Sitting on a shelf was a little plushie version of the Habs inexplicable mascot, Youppi!. Max picked it up. He should find his niece something with the Spitfires’ logo on it and send it to her. He also thought about getting Misha a stuffed Youppi! for Christmas, and he laughed out loud.
Speaking of Misha, since Max had some privacy, he sat on the bed, navigated to Misha’s number on his phone, and pressed Call.
“Max,” Misha answered. His warm, low voice made Max half-hard—sort of guilty so, cons
idering he was staring at a poster of an animated snowman.
“Hi,” Max said, settling back on the bed. His feet stuck off the end. By a lot. “So you’ve never had eggnog, huh?”
“No. Should I?”
“Nah. It’s pretty gross. We only have it at Christmas, and we should really just stick to the bourbon. How are you?” There was such a long pause that Max finally had to say, “That good, huh?”
“I am—I don’t know what to say.”
Max huffed and shifted. He wished his niece had some pillows that weren’t edged in frilly lace. “What would you be saying if I were there?”
“To get off the phone.”
Max gave a sharp bark of laughter and looked around guiltily at how loud it was. “I’m sleeping in the smallest bed ever. Seriously. If you were here, there’d be no way you’d fit. We’d have to camp out on the floor. And I don’t know what your feelings are about the movie Frozen, but if it offends you, then you definitely wouldn’t want to be in this room.”
“Why would it offend me?”
“Isn’t it set in Russia?” Max asked. “I thought it was ’cause it was all cold and snowy. And, y’know. Frozen.”
“Max,” said Misha. “I think you have had too much of this eggnog. Why are you sleeping in a tiny bed?”
“It’s my niece’s room. She’s four. She told me this evening that it’s okay if I wanted to kiss my best friend, by the way. So you should be glad about that.”
There was another long pause. “I’m your best friend?”
Max tried shoving his toes under the folded, fluffy pink blanket at the end of Schyler’s bed. “No. I meant Belsey. Of course it’s you. Duh. You should have come with me, though, seriously. You’re probably easier to sleep on than this bed.”
Thinking about being on top of Misha gave Max an idea, but he decided a change of location was in order if he were going to proceed. No way was he having phone sex in a four-year-old girl’s room. Ew.
Max had never had phone sex in his life, so adding a completely inappropriate setting was just going to kill the mood. So he told Misha a story about a very long line at the airport as he crept downstairs, through the darkened living room, and down to the house’s lower level. The half-finished part functioned as a playroom and he vaguely remembered the sofa and the old console television from his childhood.
It was dark, quiet, and really cold, so Max climbed on the couch and pulled an ancient afghan over his shoulders and settled down on the couch. It was only slightly longer than his niece’s bed, but at least there weren’t any pink pony pillows or anthropomorphized snowmen staring at him.
“Hey, Misha?”
“Yes, Max?”
Max opened his mouth, fiddled with the afghan, and realized he had no idea how to go about initiating phone sex. “What are you wearing?”
“Why?”
Okay. That was a stupid opening. He should just go for it. It was Misha, for Christ’s sake. He could do it. “I wish I could blow you,” Max said hurriedly, but with a furtive look around the room as if he were worried about getting caught. He also had his hand covering his mouth and the phone, so it sounded a lot more sinister than he intended.
“Ah, what was that?”
Max pulled the afghan over his head. It was covered in holes, so not much help. Maybe he should have used text messaging, but it would be Christmas morning before they were finished if he had to wait for Misha’s replies. “I said,” he murmured, trying to sound sexy, “I wish I could blow you.”
That at least stopped Misha’s laughing at him. “Mmm. That would be nice.”
That was Max’s brilliant opening salvo, and he had to bite back a laugh. “I’m not very good at this phone-sex thing.” Max reached under his pajama pants to touch himself, but his hand was freezing, and no way was that going anywhere near his cock. He finally brought it up to his mouth and blew gently on his skin to warm it up.
“I don’t think blowing in my ear like that is the same as a blowjob,” said Misha.
Max snorted and finally eased his hand down his pajamas again. “I was warming my hand up, thank you very much. It’s so cold down here it might be snowing.”
“You’re right, Max. You’re not very good at this at all,” said Misha, but he sounded so amused that Max could almost see him smiling. That rare smile of his, the one that made the lines crinkle up by his eyes.
“You could help, you know,” Max huffed, giving his cock a long stroke. It felt good, but also ridiculous, like he was doing it... well, in the basement over the Christmas holidays with his family asleep upstairs.
Misha said something in Russian. Max didn’t know what it was, but hearing Misha speaking Russian so close to his ear warmed him up more than the stupid blanket with the holes or his still-cold hand.
“Yeah?” said Max, breathing a little heavier, even though he had no idea what Misha was actually saying. “Tell me... ah. More about that.”
“This is the strangest fetish,” Misha said in English.
Max, who was getting nice and warm, stopped stroking his cock and scowled. “It is not. It isn’t. I bet I could find weirder ones. Actually go check your Internet browsing history, because I probably have. I’m not apologizing for looking up porn at your house, by the way. Your Internet connection is way faster than mine.”
Misha went back to Russian, and Max panted a little louder and rubbed his thumb over the head of his cock. “I want you to fuck me again. When I get home. Want it hard. Want you to bend me over the couch. Or your desk. Fuck.”
He heard Misha’s soft inhalation of breath as the unfamiliar words paused. “Yes.”
Luckily once he got warmed up to the idea, Max’s phone-sex skills seemed to be improving. “Tell me you want to fuck me.”
Misha’s voice was almost a growl. “I want to fuck you.”
“Hard?”
Misha answered, but not in English.
“Yeah,” Max breathed quietly and his eyes slid closed. “You... get yourself off. Thinking about that. About me, and fucking me hard.” His performance was definitely improving. Especially if the noise Misha made on the other end of the phone was any indication. “And tell me... what you want to do to me.”
Misha told him, and while Max couldn’t understand a goddamn word of it, it didn’t stop him from having to hurriedly pull his shirt over his head so he could avoid making a mess on the couch when he came. Luckily he was flushed and damp with sweat, because all he was wearing was a pair of pajama pants shoved down his hips and a blanket of barely connected strings.
“You liked that?” Misha’s voice was heavy and so accented that it took Max’s sex-fogged brain a minute to realize the words were English. And that they formed a question that he should answer.
“Oh, yeah.” Max frowned. “Did you get off?” Suddenly he felt bad. “I can say some more stuff if you didn’t.”
“I... ah.” Misha chuckled. “Yes. But earlier. Before you called.”
Max smiled, pulling up his pants and getting to his feet so he could head back upstairs. “Were you thinking about me? Is that what you meant?”
“No. I meant Belsey,” Misha mimicked Max’s answer from earlier and went so far as to try to sound American.
“I do not sound like a cowboy, Misha.” Max grabbed a few cookies from the kitchen on his way upstairs. “Are you going to tell me all that stuff you said earlier, but in English? When I get home, I mean.”
“When you get home. Yes.” Misha’s voice went all quiet. “Spokoynoy nochi, Lisenok.”
Max recognized good night, but he had no idea what the rest of it meant. “Good night, Misha.” He chewed on his bottom lip, half tempted to say more, but in the end he just said, “I was serious about fucking me over your desk, by the way,” then hung up and went to find a clean shirt.
On Christmas Eve, Scott and Vanessa decided to hook up their family Christmas present, which was a new television. Max helped his brother take the old one downstairs— and pointedly avoided looking
at the couch or glaring at the blanket-full-of-holes. He couldn’t help the murderous look he threw his brother when Scott said, “Oh, we should open the vent down here. It’s freezing.” He flipped something on the ceiling that allowed wonderful warm air to flood the small room.
Scott was way better with diagrams and figuring out if things were level or not, so Max just obediently held the television and moved incrementally this way and that, until Scott was satisfied. All the while he ran through several different potential versions of how to come out to his brother.
In the end he waited until they were enjoying a “post hooking up the television” beer and said, “So I really think you need a sleeper sofa in the basement. Because I’m bringing Misha with me next year, and I really don’t think we’ll both fit in Schyler’s bed. Also I’m buying you a blanket without holes in it.”
Scott stared at him. “You’re—wait. What?”
“You told Schyler it was okay,” Max protested very quickly. “I heard you.”
Scott blinked. “I did?”
“Well, she had to learn that whole “it’s okay to kiss your best friend” thing from somewhere. It was from you guys, right? You’re her parents. Schools probably don’t talk about kissing. Do they?” Max took a hurried drink from his beer bottle, looking wide-eyed at his older brother. Say something already.
Scott and Max had always gotten along, despite their age difference and their complete lack of interest in one another’s hobbies. Or maybe it was because of that. The idea of Scott hating him because of Misha was unthinkable to Max, but what if it happened?
“Oh,” Scott said, finally getting it. He blushed easily too. That must be an Ashford-family trait. “I thought you meant—never mind.” He studied Max thoughtfully. “It makes sense. You are around guys a lot.”
“I’m a hockey coach.”
“Well, there you go.” Scott took a drink of his beer. “It’s cool with me, bro. I just.... Have you always known? You never said anything growing up. You weren’t.... I mean, you didn’t think I’d hate you or anything. Right?”
