by Avon Gale
It was not Max’s responsibility to fix any of that. It was Misha’s.
And the thought scared the hell out of him.
Chapter Thirteen
The problem with his dramatic exit was not that Max wasn’t proud of himself for saying the right thing, but that all his stuff was basically at Misha’s and he really hated his stupid double bed. Also it was cold in his apartment, and the heat was never going to make him warm like he was at Misha’s.
Misha was like a human furnace. All Max had in his lonely apartment was his righteous anger and a pair of mismatched socks. That wasn’t much help against sheets that felt like ice, a pillow that was lumpy, and a bed that was depressingly empty. And he thought it couldn’t get much worse than that holey afghan in a freezing den in Minnesota. How wrong he’d been.
He meant what he said to Misha and he hoped that it got through. Because Max had lost Emma, and it hadn’t hurt nearly as bad as walking away from Misha in the parking lot. But he needed to do it. If they were going to work, Misha had to stop hating himself.
Max shivered a little and told himself, for the thousandth time, not to get in his car and drive over to Misha’s. He was doing the right thing and he knew it. But it sucked, and he wished he’d fallen in love with someone easier. Or.... Okay. No. But he wished he’d thought to at least set the heat to sixtysomething before all but abandoning his apartment.
But despite his misery and frozen toes, he knew it was going to be okay. Eventually.
Because Max would make sure of it. That’s what he did.
He had a nagging doubt in his mind because Misha hadn’t said he loved Max too, but Max refused to dwell on that. First it made him feel ridiculous, and second, he honestly believed that Misha did love him. That wasn’t the problem. Misha needed to love himself.
Max groaned and pulled the covers over his head. It was probably ridiculous to hope that Misha would figure out how to do that by morning.
Of course even if he did miraculously erase all his self-hate, there was still the matter of Drake living with Misha. Max didn’t think Drake would spread gossip maliciously or anything, but like most hockey players, he wasn’t the best at interpersonal relationships. Witness Max, sleeping in a cold bed while the man he loved suffered from a migraine, when Max knew he hadn’t taken his medication. Misha might love Max, but he also loved suffering.
That reminded Max, and he reached out of his blanket fortress to snag his phone off the dresser and pull it beneath the covers with him. He texted Misha take your medicine and don’t drink any vodka.
A few seconds later, he texted, promise, Misha.
It seemed to take a long time, but finally the phone buzzed and I promise, Max flashed on the screen.
That helped warm Max up enough to fall asleep.
Misha might have taken his medication, but he didn’t look like he’d discovered the secret to self-love. The next few weeks proved miserable for everyone involved in the Spartanburg Spitfires organization, except maybe the fans—making it an ironic turn of events from the beginning of the season. The team was winning games, but the tension between their coaches was palpable and obvious.
And Max was clearly running out of clothes to wear, since his stuff was at Misha’s.
Speaking of Misha, Max knew him well enough by then to know misery when he saw it. Even the subtle, Russian version of it.
Max resisted the urge to hit himself with a hockey stick. Instead he blew his whistle to switch up the drills. They were playing the Savannah Renegades in two days, and the Renegades were a good team who relied primarily on defense. So it was a lot like watching the Devils pull that neutral-zone-trap shit from the ’90s. Which made for boring hockey to watch. But it called for a certain degree of coaching finesse. So Max couldn’t angst about his boyfriend, send Misha self-help quizzes online, and demand to know the scores to see if he could move back in yet.
The team was solid, they had a good work ethic, and when they weren’t having dramatic interludes with homophobic players, former rentboys, and would-be amateur porn producers, they’d be playoff material. Definitely.
At least that whole rentboy thing explained how Misha was so good at blowjobs.
Drake had apparently explained to the team that he was being stalked by someone he wasn’t interested in—“I can’t tell them he’s an ex, Coach Ashford. Have you seen that guy?”—and that he was sorry for throwing a tantrum. That was met with a rousing response of “We’re used to it.” The team gave Drake an earful for running off, and that was that.
As for his stalker, Max went out to the parking lot later that week and found Misha confronting the same guy from earlier in the season—the sweaty, greasy dude apparently named “Jeff”—and making it clear, in no uncertain terms, that Jeff would not be bothering Drake ever again. Max had moved closer in case he needed to lend a hand or an elbow to the head or something, but Misha had the guy backed up against the side of the arena and in a low, threatening voice said, “I hear about you showing up anywhere near Isaac again, suka, and I’ll make you sorry.” That was apparently enough to convince Jeff that he should find some other would-be porn star for his skeevy, low-budget productions.
Belsey was not quite so easily swayed. He reamed Max and Misha in his office for ten minutes, which was unpleasant, because Belsey yelled when he wasn’t mad. But when he was finished, he pointed at Misha and said, “Am I to understand that this asshole was threatening one of my players because he’s gay?”
“Yes,” said Misha, and Max nodded.
“And you didn’t think you should tell me.”
“I tried,” Misha said, his voice betraying that he was pissed off, even if he still had his unassailable Russian front going on.
“No, Coach Samarin. If you’ll recall, you did no such thing. I told you that I’d keep the motherfucker out if I had a reason to believe he was threatening Drake’s safety, and you wouldn’t tell me what it was.”
“I didn’t know at the time,” Misha said.
Belsey snorted. “Like you would have told me even if you did. Look. I’m an asshole, but no way in hell is some creep going to threaten one of my players because he gives it to guys. Or takes it. I don’t know the lingo.”
Oh, thank God for small favors.
He and Misha must have looked doubtful, because Belsey stared at them both and then snapped, “Like I give a fuck if there are gay dudes in my locker room. I mean, I hired Coach Ashford. Didn’t I?”
“Wait. What?” Max’s eyes widened.
“You’re gay. Aren’t you?” Belsey held up a hand. “Wait. Never mind. Don’t answer. I’ll probably get sued for asking you that.”
“Max isn’t gay,” Misha put in, and Max was suddenly afraid he was going to lose his cool and give Misha that kick in the knees that Belsey expected back when they were first introduced at the beginning of the season. “I am.”
That killed a lot of his ire, right there. And just so Misha wasn’t doing it alone, Max piped up, “I’m bi. Bisexual.”
“I can see our new commercial right now.” Belsey started humming the song “It’s Raining Men,” and Max and Misha stared at him in abject horror until Belsey threw his head back and howled with laughter. “You had that coming. And for the record, I’m an asshole and I didn’t make my money being nice to people, but I’m not going to let one of these kids get gay bashed on my watch. Give me his name, and I’ll make sure he never gets a ticket again. Or a job. And Samarin, next time try telling me this shit is serious instead of just glaring at me.”
“I implied it,” Misha bit out.
“Great. Next time try telling me in plain old words,” Belsey said, staring hard at Misha. “Try picking up a few tips from your boyfriend over there. Usually he doesn’t shut up. I’m guessing that’s why you shove things in his mouth.”
Misha took a step toward Belsey, hands fisted at his sides, but Max reacted by grabbing Misha’s arm and forcibly tugging him back. He was also fighting a wild, hysterical giggle becau
se... well, that was kind of true.
“How’d you—”
“You two show up together for practices, spend all your time together, came to my New Year’s party together, and you had Thanksgiving at his house with your parents.” Belsey peered at them. “Was it supposed to be a secret?”
Their look must have given it away, because Belsey cackled like a crow. “Oh my God. This is hilarious. Wait until I tell Anna.”
They turned to go, but Belsey’s last words were “Oh. And so you don’t try and sue me, I don’t care that you’re banging. I’m fucking a girl half my age, and it isn’t the first or the last time either. Just try not to end up in a Deadspin article.”
“Let’s go,” Max said, pulling hard at Misha’s arm.
Misha needed to get out of there. Max had no idea what he was going to do to Belsey if he didn’t. And Max kept fighting an absurd urge to laugh, wondering how the sleaziest guy he knew somehow managed to own and manage the gayest team in the ECHL.
They went to Misha’s office so he could cool off, and Max gave him a minute or two of silence. Then he said, “I can’t decide if he’s not as bad as I thought he was, or if he’s worse.”
“That is not why I put my cock in your mouth,” Misha said.
Max clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. It didn’t work. “Oh my God. Is that why you’re mad?”
“He shouldn’t say these things,” Misha muttered.
“No, but—come on. You have to see how funny this is,” Max said, breaking into a grin. “Jack Belsey, sleaziest man alive, is also completely unconcerned about the fact his coaches are sleeping together and that the goalie’s gay?”
Misha’s expression remained stony. “It is not funny.”
Max grinned. “Oh, come on. It’s a little funny.”
Misha arched one fair brow at him. “Like the bench brawl was funny?”
“Yeah,” Max said. “Like that.”
He didn’t want to sleep at his apartment anymore. He didn’t want either of them to be mopey and miserable, especially because he knew that’s still what Misha thought he deserved. But Max believed with every fiber of his being that Misha needed to work through all his internalized guilt and disgust. How could Misha do that if Max was around all the time?
Maybe you should both stop thinking you know what the other person needs.
Max wondered what his parents would do in that situation. Oddly enough Belsey’s advice of “try telling me in plain old words” echoed in his head. For once maybe the sleazeball was onto something.
“Misha?”
“Yes, Max?”
Max reached around Misha to close the door. “Sleeping at that apartment sucks. Also I’ve worn this shirt twice this week already.” He held his arms out to showcase the shirt he really needed to wash. “All the clothes I usually wear are at your house. Honestly most of everything I own that isn’t furniture is at your house.”
Misha didn’t say anything, but watched Max with his usual guarded expression.
Plain old words. Right. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t want you to hate yourself but, umm... I don’t think being miserable is a good idea either. And I’m kind of miserable. I don’t know about you.”
Misha moved closer, reached out, and traced his fingers over Max’s bottom lip. It made Max’s dick hard immediately, because he was miserable and horny. “Of course I’m miserable. But you were right, Max. It was not fair of me to think that you wouldn’t want me anymore after you heard my story. But, Max. I—” He paused when there was a knock at the door and stepped back and morphed into Coach mode. “Yes?”
Drake popped his head in. “I guess I need a ride, since I live with you now.” He looked at Max. “And if Coach Ashford wants to stay over, it’s fine. I’m gay, I can handle it that you guys are together. And the whole team would appreciate it if you two made up.”
Misha said something in Russian. Max recognized one of the words because he’d heard it on the ice from a few other Russian players. So that probably meant it was bad.
“Wait. Why do you think we’re together?” Max asked. Then he realized how inappropriate it was to ask one of his players why he thought Max and the head coach were boning. “Drake, me and Coach Samarin need a minute.”
Drake rolled his eyes. “Wait. Seriously? Coach Ashford, your parents were at Coach Samarin’s for Thanksgiving. And there’s a bunch of your stuff at Coach Samarin’s place. Like, in the washing machine.”
Misha spoke up while Max tried and failed to find the appropriate thing to say. “Drake, when I want to talk to you about my personal life, I’ll let you know. It isn’t now and it isn’t here. Wait for me outside.”
Fuck. Misha’s coach voice was not helping Max’s problem of being miserable and horny.
Drake grinned. It wasn’t quite his usual irreverent smile but it was definitely closer than they’d seen from him recently. “Sure. But seriously, please make up. We all like it better when you’re both getting laid regularly.” Drake held his hands up. “And don’t get mad at me. I’m the captain. It’s my job to say this stuff.” Drake waggled his eyebrows. “And explain to the team what it means when I say how I ship you two.”
“Outside. Or in five minutes, it will be your job to explain why there’s a bag skate,” Misha threatened.
Drake snapped a salute, thoughtfully closed the door behind him, and vanished.
Misha sat on the edge of his desk, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I think this is not the best place to talk about this.”
“Why not? It seems the entire team already knows the thing we’re talking about,” Max said, trying to lighten the mood. Misha looked so... defeated, as if he already knew where the conversation was going and what the outcome would be.
It occurred to Max that, with the exception of their reintroduction by way of Jack Belsey, the only time he and Misha reacted around each other without overthinking things to death first was while they were playing hockey. “I have an idea. Take Drake home, grab some gear, and meet me back here in an hour.”
“Gear?” Misha shook his head. “I’m not doing a bag skate, Ashford.”
“We’re not doing a bag skate, Samarin,” said Max. “We’re going to play some hockey.”
While Misha went to take Drake back to the house, Max jumped in his Jeep and headed back to his apartment—where he did not intend to spend another night if he could help it—and rummaged through the boxes stacked in his living room.
Finally he found some old gear and one of his old jerseys, threw it all in a bag—which, wow. He didn’t miss carrying that shit around or how it smelled—and notched the heat down out of a sense of optimism. He’d be miserable enough if he ended up back there. It wouldn’t matter how cold it was.
The rink was quiet, the ice sparkling in the muted lights as Max sat on the bench to tie his skates. Misha, who lived closer to the rink than Max did, was already on the ice.
He was wearing a jersey too. A Bruins jersey.
Max stared at him, stuck between the perfectly rational hatred an ex-Hab should feel for an ex-Bruin, and lust at how hot Misha looked skating. Max saw him on the ice practically every day, but there was a difference between Coach Samarin in his black fleece, with his silver whistle and ever-present glower, and Misha the player, wearing that hated spoked B, looking taller and broader in all his gear.
Max skated out to meet him and nodded at the jersey. “Fucking Bruin. Your team was a bunch of thugs, you know.”
Misha responded, not with words, but by making a diving motion with his hands.
“Oh, fuck you,” Max laughed, pretending to go for his gloves. Instead he skated a circle around Misha and he stopped when he saw the back of the uniform—Samarin with the number sixteen. Max waited to see if it gave him any kind of chill, but it didn’t.
“Come on,” he said and dropped the puck.
“I’m a defenseman,” Misha reminded him, as he fell in stride beside Max. Neither of them were particularly fast, s
eeing as how they were the ones leading the conditioning instead of doing it, but they weren’t bad for a couple of retired players.
The puck danced on Max’s stick as he skated. “So defend. Also remember I can’t see to my left. And if you apologize, I’ll slew foot you.”
“Just like a Hab,” Misha chirped, and Max felt a rush of pure, unadulterated joy as he took off down the ice with a former Bruin chasing after him. He always loved Habs-Bruins games. There was no other rivalry quite like it in all of professional sports.
Max was a little faster on skates, but he got a cramp as he neared the goal, and Misha appeared—on his right side, not his left—and nimbly stole the puck. He didn’t start back down the ice, though. He looked about as winded as Max felt. “Strange that I spent twenty years doing this every day.”
“I know. Right? It makes me feel a little bit bad about those bag skates.”
“Not me,” Misha said. “I did enough of those too.”
“Bruin,” Max huffed. “Seems like even your coaches were thugs.”
“Mostly it was when I was younger. In Russia.” Misha’s long-legged stride was hard to keep up with, but Max could feel the burn in his lungs and the fatigue in his muscles give way as his body warmed up to the familiar activity.
“Why did you want to be a defenseman? Besides the fact you’re eleven feet tall and all limbs, I mean.” Max darted over and tried to steal the puck. Misha gave him an offended look and shifted it on his stick, but then sent it back to Max with a saucer pass.
Max concentrated and sent a slapshot straight down the ice. The puck hit the back of the net, but the goal light wasn’t connected, so there were no flashing lights or sounds. Still it was always satisfying, even if it didn’t count. Max threw his arms up in victory.
