by Avon Gale
Max inhaled a sharp breath and kissed Misha’s neck. “Oh. Okay. The things I do for you.”
In all the times Misha had ever let someone fuck him, it had been quick, furtive, and—there was no way around it—shameful. And he hadn’t liked it. He could vividly remember grasping at the stained, dirty mattress beneath him, smelling cat piss, and wishing he had something to twist in his hands while the man sweated and pumped on his back.
But there was one time, shortly after he arrived in America, when the lonely nights and the fantasies of how things could have been grew too insistent, and Misha reached out for someone to make it feel good. And it had been good. The man he’d been with—Misha no longer remembered his name—had taken his time and made Misha tremble and moan, facedown on a bed with clean sheets that smelled like nothing but fabric softener.
He liked it, and of course that’s why he never asked for it after that. He rarely fucked other men, because that too had been part of the shameful activities hidden away in dark rooms and back alleys.
Max, because he was Max, was clumsy and excited and endearingly chatty as he fucked Misha. He stopped every so often to kiss Misha on the neck or rub his hands down Misha’s body and lick his tattoos. And Misha was on his back, not his stomach with his face buried in the mattress. And watching Max was as good as he thought it would be. But when Max kissed between his thighs and gently tongued at his hole, Misha couldn’t stop the sudden torrent of words that spilled forth as his hips bucked in pleasure.
“Ha.” Max stopped to grin up at him. “I saw this on the Internet. I hoped you’d like it. I mean, it seemed weird at first, and guys in porn always like everything, so I wasn’t sure about it. But I looked on some websites.” He moved in again, tongue flickering around the edges, and Misha put one hand in Max’s hair and grabbed desperately at the bedding beneath him with the other.
Max’s tongue pressed inside and fucked him, and it was possibly the best thing Misha had ever felt. No one had ever done that before. Only Max. And that thought alone was almost enough to make him come. He would have tried to say that, but the words would be garbled and Russian and wouldn’t make any sense, even if Max were a native speaker.
“You should get yourself off while I do this,” Max said, and the words penetrated through Misha’s lust-fogged brain enough for him to abandon his hold on the comforter and take his cock in hand. “Just be nicer to your dick than you’re being to my hair. I have plans for it later. Your dick, I mean. You can pull my hair as hard as you want.”
He tried to gentle his hold, but Max went back to tonguefucking him, and Misha stroked himself off so quickly he might have been embarrassed if it weren’t for how good it felt. When he was able to open his eyes, it was to see Max kneeling between his legs, slicking up his condom-sheathed dick and watching Misha with obvious enjoyment. “You were loud. You’re never that loud.” Max smirked at him smugly. “You might be the head coach and the best at blowjobs, but I win at rimming.”
Misha’s breath evened out. “I think... maybe... I won,” he panted. Then he shifted so his legs fell open wider as Max rubbed his lube-covered fingers over his hole and slid inside to open him up.
Max eased on top of him and hesitated a little as he pressed the tip of his cock against Misha. “You’ll tell me to stop if it hurts. Right?” Before Misha could say anything, Max huffed and rolled his eyes. “Wait a minute. Who am I kidding? It’s you. Of course you won’t.”
Misha tried to glare at him and then opted for his coach voice—or his best approximation—since he knew it always got Max hot when he used it in bed. “Fuck me, Max. I want it hard.”
“Jesus, Misha,” Max moaned and pushed his hips forward. He was cautious as first, but Misha was relaxed and open, and he stopped being so careful when it was clear that Misha was enjoying it.
Drake must have had some eerie sixth sense about when Max and Misha went to bed and might be a bit noisy, because it was usually around that time of night that a low, rhythmic bass came pounding through the walls while there was some pounding going on downstairs in the master bedroom. Neither Misha nor Max ever asked, and the sound had become so familiar, it was hardly noticeable.
But it meant that Misha didn’t have to worry about the sound of his moans carrying, though he honestly didn’t care. Because Max fucked him with a single-minded determination that was the sexiest thing Misha had ever seen. It was enough to shake Misha’s entire equilibrium and leave him storm tossed and gasping.
“God, this feels so good,” Max panted, head thrown back, showing the corded muscles of his neck and the bruises Misha’s earlier, desperate kisses had left on his skin. “Oh, it’s good when you move like—ah—fuck—”
This was not shameful, it was not guilty, and it was not grim or in any way a punishment. But it wasn’t empty pleasure like the men Misha had paid either. It was joyful and it was good. It was so good that Misha knew he’d never have a problem with it ever again, and the thought was so amazingly freeing that it was almost as good as his earlier orgasm. Almost.
Misha reached behind him to grab at the headboard and push himself harder to meet Max’s thrusts. He started speaking in Russian. Max half fell on top of him and fucked him with graceless enthusiasm until he came with a muted moan and a sharp bite to Misha’s shoulder.
Later when they were cleaned up and in bed and Drake’s bass music was toned down a bit—“he must think we’re too old to go for that long”—Max looked at Misha and said, “You never did tell me what you said on the phone to me. That night when I was at my parents. But it sounded like the same thing you said right now. Was it?”
Misha nodded.
“What was it?” Max raised his eyebrows. “Holy shit, Misha. Are you blushing?”
“It was... ah. I tried to think of something I knew well. Yes? By heart even.”
“Was it some of that exa-whatever literature that Belsey hates?”
“No,” Misha promised. “It wasn’t.”
“Then what was it?”
Misha cleared his throat and started singing the words he’d said, which belonged to the Soviet national anthem.
Max listened for a few seconds and then scowled. “You recited the song from The Hunt for Red October? I didn’t even know you owned that movie.”
Misha laughed and didn’t stop, even when Max hit him with a pillow and called him a communist.
In fact it only made him laugh harder, roll on top of Max with a “We’ll see about that, comrade,” and see how long it took for Drake to turn his music back up.
Chapter Fifteen
The last game of the year for the Spartanburg Spitfires was their third and final game of the season against the Jacksonville Sea Storm.
The Storm were already a lock-in for a playoff spot, and against all odds, the little team that couldn’t at the beginning of the season only needed one more point to join them there.
One point. They had to either beat the Storm in regulation time, or at the very least, tie and go to a shootout. Either way in order for the Spitfires to play hockey in the postseason, something they’d never done and no one thought they’d ever do, they had to beat the reigning Cup champions.
In Jacksonville.
On a Saturday.
Max wasn’t sure what he expected from his team, other than nerves. And there were plenty because, while they put up a good showing during their last meeting with the Storm back in Spartanburg, they still hadn’t managed to find a way to win against them. As good as Drake was in goal, Riley Hunter was just that much better. As productive as the Spitfires’ top scorer, Drew Crowder, was, the Storm’s Bennett Halley was just a little more so.
Max didn’t want his team to think they had no chance, because that was just asking for a repeat of their 8-0 shutout. So he and Misha ran them hard and made sure the team knew they expected nothing less than a win. Max was able to keep his players’ morale up while maintaining the exacting standards Misha was setting for them on the ice. Their combination of coach
ing styles worked well together, and Max was determined his team was going to win the game. Not because getting into the playoffs would be a huge accomplishment for the team who’d finished last in the league the previous season—even though it was. It wasn’t about the past. It was about the future and the promise Max could see in the team, and he wanted his players to share that vision and see it as clearly as he could.
So he promised the team that, not only would their reward for winning the game be a trip to the playoffs and proving everyone wrong, but Misha would wear his Stanley Cup ring during their playoff run. Wrangling that promise out of Misha had been almost as insurmountable as getting the Spitfires into playoff contention in the first place, because Misha had never so much as put the thing on. But Max had a secret weapon in his arsenal, and he knew just what to do to make Misha agree to just about anything. Which was how Max got Misha to show him the damn ring in the first place, since he kept it hidden in the back of his closet in the safe that held his passport.
Misha gave the pregame speech in Jacksonville, which he’d only ever done before the game in Toledo that turned into a bench brawl—a fact that he brought up as he addressed the Spitfires before they took the ice for the puck drop. “In Toledo I saw a team come together on the ice. Now I need you to do that again. There is a game that must be won, and we will win it. We have long since put the past behind us. Now let’s go show everyone how wrong they really were about us.”
The team cheered, and they looked focused and ready to play as they headed out to the bench. Drake raised his goalie stick at his teammates as he skated out to take his position, and Max stood next to Misha and wished he had that whole calm-facade thing down.
He so didn’t. But to his relief, the coach for the Sea Storm didn’t either. He was yelling at his team as much as Max was yelling at his, and there was no real reason, since the Storm was already heading to the playoffs and it was basically a meaningless game for them.
But teams who thought there was such a thing as a meaningless game didn’t make it to the championship, and the Storm played as fiercely as ever. And even though it was as stressful as any game Max had ever coached, he was glad about that. He wanted to win, but he wanted to win against the top team in the league playing their best, not their passably adequate.
And his team.... Well, the Spitfires showed up with a small, respectable fan base and a hell of an attitude. They were giving it their all, and Max would be proud of them even if they lost. They communicated on the ice, they were focused, they ran the plays they’d practiced, and they functioned like a team. A squadron. One that wasn’t on fire.
There was something to be said for a team that had nothing to lose and everything to gain. They were playing for their lives against an opponent who had nowhere near as much on the line. And it was evident in the way the Spitfires played, and it was evident in the riskier decisions Misha made during the game and the way his focus was so laser sharp on the ice that Max was surprised it didn’t melt.
He knew the guys were bummed when the first period ended tied at nothing and the second ended with a one-nothing Sea Storm lead. They only had twenty minutes to not only score one goal on the seemingly unscoreable Riley Hunter, but two. And while technically a tie would give them the point they needed to secure a playoff spot, Max knew his team needed the win more than they needed a trip to the playoffs.
This game was the real test of their season. Could their young team pull together and slay the giant?
Now my life is an ESPN 30 for 30 special.
Max sweated in his suit and tried not to look as the clock counted down the minutes. They could not lose by one goal. No way.
Drew Miller found the back of the net about six minutes into the period, giving a burst of sudden momentum to the tired Spitfires. With the game tied and only three minutes left in the period, Misha and Max conferred briefly about their strategy.
They could do the safe thing and rely heavily on their defense to keep the game tied, sending them to overtime and the playoffs. Keeping the Storm from scoring would be enough to earn them a point in the standings.
Or they could switch it up, give it everything they had offensively, put the bulk of the responsibility on Drake to keep the Storm from scoring, and hope their offense could put one behind Hunter and end the game with a regulation Spitfires win. It was a riskier move that could cost them the game, the playoffs, and their season.
The Storm would expect the Spitfires to play it safe, especially given what was on the line.
“If there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s not doing what anyone expects,” Max said. He tapped the clipboard and exchanged a look with Misha.
“Just go score a goddamn goal,” Drake said, jamming his mask over his face. “I’ll hold the line. Fuck a tie. We came here to win.”
The Spitfires managed a cheer, and Misha gave a brief nod, and that was that. Drake skated back to the crease, the Spitfires took to the ice, and the last three minutes of the game began.
Max didn’t think he took a breath the entire time. Bennett Halley sent a high glove-side shot right at Drake, which Drake caught in his glove and slammed down on the ice with so much attitude, Max would have laughed if it wouldn’t have made him pass out. He and Misha watched their team fight for puck possession and head toward the Storm’s zone. They gave it everything they had and made a few poor-choice shots while they were at it.
“They’re going to send me to an early grave,” Max muttered and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Should we pull Drake?” That would give the Spitfires six skaters instead of five, and the Storm definitely wouldn’t expect them to do that. But it would leave the Spitfires’ net empty, and with ninety seconds of hockey left to play, that could be a disaster.
Misha actually looked as if he were considering it, but it turned out not to be necessary. With a minute fourteen seconds left in the game, Etienne Marcou managed a beautiful shot from the corner that Hunter was a half second too late to stop, and the Spitfires went up 2-1.
For the last seventy-five seconds, the crowd in Jacksonville was on its feet as the Storm pulled their goalie and sent six skaters toward the Spitfires’ goal. But the Spitfires weren’t going to let Drake take the brunt of a sustained Storm offensive attack, and to a man, they threw themselves in front of shots to block them, keeping in tight around their goalie so that nothing could get through.
The buzzer sounded to end the game, and a crowd that had just witnessed a hell of a game of hockey gave a standing ovation. When the Sea Storm skated out to raise their sticks to their fans in the traditional thank-you salute, Captain Halley indicated that the Spitfires should join them at center ice. It made Max smile, and he and Misha clapped along with the crowd. Of all the games he’d ever won in his entire career—from the peewee leagues to the Stanley Cup playoffs—it was by far his favorite.
The team was beside themselves in the locker room, shouting and yelling and smiling so wide it was hard to remember the sullen faces staring back at Max after the first five games of the season. Max opened his mouth to say something, but all he managed was “Fucking goddamn A, boys. Fucking goddamn A.”
As nonsensical as it was, the whole team cheered anyway.
Misha did that thing where he held his hand up and the locker room went silent immediately, though it probably helped that Drake whacked two people in the head with his goalie stick and told everyone to “Shut the fuck up. Coach Samarin is fucking talking.”
“I am very proud of all of you. Spitfires indeed.” Misha graced the entire team with one of his rare smiles that showed teeth. “Be gracious winners and let the losing team buy you drinks. Yes?”
There was a resounding cheer, and then Max and Misha went out into the warm spring night to catch the bus back to their hotel—an Econo Lodge next to the Interstate. It was nothing to look at, but at least there was a bar across the street.
Max and Misha made their way to it after Misha shoved Max against the door the second they walked into th
e room and fucked him so hard Max knew he’d have bruises on his hips.
“That’s— Okay. Fine. Maybe fucking a Bruin has advantages,” Max wheezed, his legs shaking so hard from his orgasm that he needed to wait a minute before moving away from the door.
“Not a Bruin,” Misha corrected. “A Spitfire.”
They met their team, as well as quite a few guys from the Storm, at the bar across the street. It was called Bombers, and their special seemed to be scalding-hot chicken nuggets, Bud Light, and minipretzels with “cheese” sauce. The quotes suggested it was anything but a dairy product, but Max ordered some anyway because he was starving.
Max settled in the booth and barely winced as he sat down. For the most part, he ignored the self-satisfied smile that Misha probably thought no one could see. They were joined a few moments later by the Storm’s coach, who was dressed in less formal clothes but somehow still looked mad, even though he was smiling.
“Fuck you, assholes.” The guy held his hand out. “Cole Spencer. Way to piss off our fans on the last game of the season, jerkoffs.”
Max and Misha both shook his hand with a laugh and clinked their beer bottles in a silent toast.
“You guys must be new. Last year I remember the coach sat on the bench with his headphones on and his eyes closed the whole game. I think your goalie was calling plays from in net.”
Drake, who was across the bar leaning casually against a pool table, was talking to Riley Hunter and a scrappy kid who looked like a boxer or a punk-rock singer covered in tattoos. Drake grinned and drank out of his beer bottle so suggestively it was almost comical.
“That your goalie?” Coach Spencer asked, pointing with his beer bottle at Drake. “He’s good. Mine’s going to the AHL if we win the Cup again. I just know it. Spent four years training that kid to be goddamn great, and now he’s going to play for the Crunch up in Syracuse. And take my outreach coordinator with him, the fucker.” Spencer waved a hand and shouted. “Kennedy. Don’t break anything. We don’t pay you enough to afford to fix it.”
