Cold War: Figure Skating Gay Romance

by Keira Andrews

  “Sure. It’s not too far.”

  A fresh layer of snow blanketed the streets, and only a few cars went by. Fat flakes of snow drifted down, peppering Dev’s black hair. The wind was calm, and as they strolled along, gloved hands clasped, Misha breathed in the night air deeply. The city was aglow with Christmas colors—lights and wreaths and decorations glittering amid the snow.

  “I can’t believe I was so afraid to tell my parents. I should have given them more credit. But I’m sorry it was so public. I was planning on telling them in private, but as soon as I saw them standing there with you, I couldn’t keep it in another second.”

  “I do not mind. It was…” Misha tried to find the right words. “It felt good to be declared. Do you know what I mean?”

  Dev kissed him lightly. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  In the stillness as they walked, voices raised in song murmured, growing stronger as Dev and Misha neared a church.

  “It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old.”

  Dev checked his watch. “It’s almost Christmas. I know you don’t celebrate it until January, though.”

  “I will mark it twice. There is much to celebrate, yes?”

  Dev grinned. “Da.”

  As they reached the church, the choir echoed into the night from within. “The world in solemn stillness lay, to hear the angels sing.”

  “What will tomorrow be like?” Misha asked.

  “Chaos. A lot of food and a lot of people. I may be an only child, but I have a ton of cousins. Everyone usually comes over by around three. We don’t sit at the table—not enough room. So Ma and my aunties put all the food out there, and it’s a buffet, and you find a place to sit wherever—living room, kitchen, den. It’ll be mostly Indian food, but turkey and stuffing as well. Sara Auntie makes the best cranberry sauce from scratch.”

  “Do you think they’ll like me?” His gut twisted foolishly, as if he was a mere boy.

  “Of course. Just be yourself.” Dev smiled as they crossed the street, the snow falling more thickly now. “They’ll love you.”

  “It shall be a shock to them, though. That we are together.”

  Dev smirked. “It’ll be a shock to them tonight when they hear all about it from my mother. Trust me, by tomorrow, the whole family will know. Probably the entire south Indian population in Boston too. Make that the eastern seaboard.”

  Misha was chuckling when he skidded on the sidewalk, sneakers slipping on an icy patch hidden by the fresh snow. Clutching at Dev, he windmilled his free arm, but they tumbled to the ground, landing on their rear ends in an ungainly heap.

  “Ow. Thanks for bringing me down with you.” Dev elbowed him playfully. “We’re getting too old for this. How many years have we spent on ice? Can’t even stay on our feet now. This is humiliating.”

  The snow was a couple of inches thick now, covering the lights strung around the trees arching overhead. The sidewalk was empty except for them, the streets quiet in the lull before midnight mass concluded. “Since we are down here…” Misha extended himself into the pristine snow covering the church lawn. With arms and legs out, he flapped them up and down. “Snezhnyy angel.”

  Brushing off his jeans uselessly, Dev got to his feet and then launched himself farther over on the lawn. He waved his limbs, their gloves touching on each pass. “I haven’t done this since I was a kid. We’re going to be soaked.”

  “We’ll have to take a long, hot bath together.”

  “Sounds terrible.”

  “Yes. A very bad Christmas.”

  “The worst.”

  Misha stared at Dev flapping beside him in the snow. We love each other. He could hardly believe it was real, but nothing had ever felt so true.

  As the clock struck twelve, they made angels and listened to the choir’s new song.

  “All is calm, all is bright…”

  Epilogue

  It was dark by the time Misha turned toward the ocean. He’d splurged on a fancy entertainment system in his Honda, and at least it made being stuck in LA traffic more bearable. He’d agreed to visit the reopening training center up at Lake Arrowhead as a favor for a friend of Dev’s boss, but the slow drive back into the city had him gripping the steering wheel and cursing under his breath. It was New Year’s Eve, yet rush hour was unchanged.

  “This is why I prefer to stay on the beach,” he muttered to himself.

  It had been pleasant to work with the young pair team and give them advice. He had no interest in coaching, but it was a birthday surprise for the girl, who’d shrieked and gone very red in the face when he’d skated onto the ice without warning. They’d taken many pictures, and she’d cried a little and asked him to autograph just about everything in her backpack. As a special treat, he had worked with her on a simple lasso lift and whirled her high around the ice faster than her partner could dream of going at his level.

  Misha smiled to himself. It had been a good day, even though he’d missed writing. He had story ideas turning over and over in his mind, and at least in the creeping traffic he’d been able to dictate a few into his new phone.

  Still, by the time he parked in the driveway, he was tired and ready for a cold beer and quiet night. Dev was working until seven o’clock, and sure enough, the house was dark. Misha had wanted to have a proper celebration, but Dev hadn’t seemed very interested. Still, Misha would make an Olivier salad at least.

  As Misha walked to the green-painted front door, he frowned at the shut curtains. He was sure he’d left them open. He and Dev rarely closed any of the drapes, preferring to let the sunlight stream in.

  Misha turned his key and opened the door. There was only silence. Not as though a thief would go to the trouble of closing the drapes anyway. But as he blinked, he realized there was a strange, soft glow coming from the rear of the house. He called out, “Dev? You are here?”

  No answer. Misha had dropped off Zoloto with the neighbor before leaving for Lake Arrowhead, so no doggie rushed to greet him. A strange feeling prickled his spine. Something is not right. Shutting the door behind him, Misha tiptoed around the corner to the open living room, where they had their couch and television with a view of the beach and ocean beyond. “Bozhe moi!”

  The large pine tree stood in the corner by the sliding doors to the patio, casting its colored light across the light wood and high to the soaring ceiling—red, pink, green, blue, and yellow. Sparkling ornaments hung from it, and a golden glass spire shone from the top. Beside it was Dev, dressed in a blue velvet cloak and long hat, both trimmed with white fur and adorned with glittering snowflakes.

  “Sorry, Dev’s not here. I’m Father Frost. Happy New Year.”

  Delight surged through Misha as he laughed. “I cannot believe it, Vassenka. You have done this for me?”

  “Of course.” Dev motioned to the tree. “Kisa brought some of the ornaments. The hanging nesting dolls are amazing.” He spread his arms wide, revealing that he was naked beneath the thick cloak. “And of course she brought me the outfit. You like?”

  Misha closed the distance between them and hauled Dev into his arms. “Very much.” He chuckled to himself. “Father Frost has never been so sexy. And I see this is why Kisa brought such large suitcases. You planned this before she arrived?”

  Dev straightened the floppy end of his hat. “Yep. I e-mailed and asked about what you like to do for the holidays. I know it’s hard that you’re away from home.” He waved a hand over himself with a shrug. “This is kind of silly, but I thought you might like it.”

  Misha found he could not stop grinning. “It is all I could dream of. This is my home. There is no better place for me.”

  With a beaming smile, Dev kissed him. “I never thought it could be like this. Not much more than a year ago, you were practically a stranger.” His fingers were soft on Misha’s face. “God, I used to hate you so much, and now you’re everything.”

  Misha leaned their foreheads together. “We are the team now. Maybe we d
o not skate together, but you are my partner.”

  “Always.”

  They held each other, and Misha buried his face in the soft material of Dev’s cloak. When they kissed, it was sweet and gentle at first, and Misha thought he could be forever happy like that, kissing Dev in the rainbow glow of the tree. But soon his blood roared, and he tugged at his clothing until they were both naked on top of the cloak, spread wide on the wooden floor. They loved each other with mouths and hands, bodies entwined, giving pleasure until they were spent and tangled.

  Dev brushed back Misha’s sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “So if I’m Father Frost, do I grant your New Year’s wish? The way we’d ask Santa Claus for something we really want?”

  Misha pressed a kiss to Dev’s neck, where his pulse still fluttered. “I have used my wish. What will yours be?”

  Zoloto’s excited barking from the beach jolted them both. With a groan, Dev pushed himself up and shrugged on the cloak. “Carol said she’d drop her back around nine.” He waved through the glass.

  Misha sat up and waved as well to their neighbor, too sated and warm to care about his nakedness. Zoloto bounded across the wooden deck, and Carol’s laughter echoed on the waves as Dev opened the sliding door.

  “Thanks, Carol! We owe you!” Dev called.

  She waved, still laughing as she headed home.

  Zoloto exploded through the door, skidding on the floor as she raced to Misha and then back to Dev, tongue hanging out as she spun around. Dev scooped her up and kissed her head.

  “How’s our girl? Are you going to help me get dinner ready? Or are you going to knock ornaments off the tree and slobber everywhere?”

  Zoloto barked and licked his face.

  “I think she says the second option is best.” Misha laughed. “Here, I will take her. Are you making traditional Russian New Year’s dinner? Or your famous frozen meatballs?”

  With a flourish, Dev scooped up the velvet hat and set it on his head. “Father Frost is insulted you would even ask.” He pivoted on his heel and marched toward the kitchen. At the door, he turned. “And yes, meatballs. Also a salad Kisa gave me a recipe for. And some pizza pockets and a key lime cheesecake. It’s a Russian/American mash-up.”

  Misha grinned. “Sounds perfect.”

  Just before midnight, they were snuggled on the couch in their pajamas with the blue velvet cloak as a blanket, Zoloto tucked between them. Misha nudged Dev with his shoulder. “You never gave me your New Year’s wish.”

  The countdown from Times Square began on TV. Of course it had been recorded earlier on the East Coast, but Misha still felt the tingle of anticipation. “Ten, nine, eight—”

  Dev breathed deeply and took Misha’s hand. “Just…this.”

  “Three, two, one—Happy New Year!”

  As Zoloto howled, they kissed, and the future began.

  THE END

  Afterword

  Thank you so much for reading this figure skating romance! I hope you enjoyed Dev and Misha’s journey, and I’d be grateful if you could take a few minutes to leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, your preferred bookseller, or social media. Just a couple of sentences can really help other readers discover this book. Thank you again.

  Wishing you many happily ever afters!

  Keira

  <3

  P.S. Keep reading for a sneak peek from Reading the Signs—another sexy sports romance!

  Nico looked absolutely confident on the mound, his uniform hugging lean muscles, socks pulled up to his knees in the throwback style Jake found incredibly sexy despite himself. Nico was in control of the ballgame.

  That was until the top of the eighth, when he gave up a walk and then a line drive that allowed the pinch runner to get from first to third with one out. The home crowd murmured, and Jake knew they were wondering if Skip would make the walk out to the mound to give Nico the hook.

  Nico had thrown a great game, hanging in for more innings than usual for a starter, his pitch count still fairly low. He had to be exhausted, and there was no shame in letting a reliever take over. But Skip stayed put, so Jake focused on the next batter.

  He flashed the signs to Nico. It was another near sell-out—on a Wednesday, no less—and the audience’s restless energy set his hair on end, tension building. The Capitals were ahead 4-2. If they could hold the lead or better yet keep their bats going in the bottom of the eighth, they just needed three outs for the win in the top of the ninth.

  The Atlanta batter, Gerard, was at 2-2, and Nico just needed to throw one more strike. Jake’s left knee throbbed, and he balanced on his toes in his crouch, his shoulders hunched forward. With runners on, Jake switched to his hop stance, his feet flatter and positioned at three and nine, ready to spring up and pivot to six and twelve to throw out the runner currently at first if he tried to steal second. The guy probably wouldn’t since he wasn’t known for speed, but Jake had to be ready.

  He flashed the signs and waited for the pitch, the crowd buzzing like cicadas in the surprisingly humid night. It was late June now, and this was apparently a taste of what was to come. Sweat dripped down Jake’s forehead, and he wanted to push up his cage mask and swipe it out of his eyes.

  Nico wound up and let the pitch rip, just missing the corner of the plate. Jake held the ball, twisting his wrist minutely toward the strike zone. But the ump behind him, his hand resting lightly on Jake’s back, didn’t say anything as he stood up straight, which meant it was a ball.

  Fuck. Full count. If Nico walked the bases loaded, his night was over, and he’d be on the hook if these runners scored in the inning. Nico’s shoulders were up, his fingers tapping his thigh restlessly. Jake wished he could communicate with him telepathically and tell him to breathe. Hell, he wished he could pitch for him, but all he could do was flash the signs and hope.

  It was crazy to think Jake had only known Nico again for what, a month or so? Maybe it was the time they’d spent together years ago, because hell if Jake wasn’t rooting harder for Nico than he had for any of his pitchers in far too long.

  The crowd roared as the fastball streaked over the plate and hit Jake’s glove, the batter caught looking and the ump pivoting with a guttural called third strike.

  One more. Just one more out and they would escape the jam. Pop-up, fly ball, strikeout, groundout. Jake mentally reviewed the stats of the next batter and flashed Nico the sign for a two-seam fastball to try and generate weak contact in the bottom of the strike zone.

  Nico nodded, wound up, and unleashed the ball toward the plate. Just like Jake had hoped, the batter jumped on the first pitch, hitting a grounder to third that ended the inning. Jumping to his feet, Jake shouted along with the crowd as Nico pumped his fist and walked toward the dugout. Jake pushed up his mask and joined him, slapping Nico’s butt with his gloved hand.

  “Great patience to get the out. Keep it up.”

  A grin brightening his face and dimpling his cheeks, Nico nodded. Jake firmly told himself to ignore the flutter in his belly.

  But a minute later through the din of the crowd and an old CCR song, Nico’s voice rose at the other end of the dugout. “No way. I want to stay in. I can do it!”

  Jake looked over to find Nico on his feet, gesturing emphatically to Skip and Loyola. Murakami, the closer, was up in the bullpen, and Nico’s face was turning alarmingly red. Jake wanted to go talk him down, but it wasn’t his place to get involved when Skip was already over there. The other guys seemingly ignored the fracas, but Jake knew they were listening to every word.

  “I can do it! I want the complete game!”

  The coaches spoke reasonably, too low for Jake to hear. Nico shook his head emphatically, insistent that he could finish the game, but the decision had been made, and he grabbed a batting helmet and whipped it onto the floor, where it clattered and spun. “Fuck this!”

  Jake’s blood pressure spiked with equal parts irritation and disappointment. This juvenile bullshit should have been beneath any major leaguer, and Jake h
ad thought Nico was better than that.

  Chomping his gum so hard he was about to dislocate his jaw, Skip glared and hissed a warning to Nico, who slumped down on the bench, his lips pressed into a thin line and arms crossed, steam practically shooting out of his ears. The guys down there gave him a wide berth, and attention turned to the field as the team went up to bat. Jake was tempted to go over and tell Nico to cut the shit, but hopefully they’d score an insurance run or two and he’d get his head out of his ass.

  Naturally that didn’t happen. After a pop-up, a ground out, a walk, and a fly ball, it was time for Murakami to close it out in the top of the ninth. Jake pushed Nico from his mind. The crowd cheered Murakami’s arrival from the bullpen, clapping along to musical interludes and doing the wave, excitement brimming. When he was ready, Jake flashed the signs. Three outs, and this one was in the bag.

  Too bad the bag had a big fucking rip in the bottom.

  Murakami was usually steady as a rock, his breaking balls fooling hitters from both sides of the plate. But after a walk and a hit, Atlanta’s second baseman ripped a three-run homer. Head low, Murakami trudged to the dugout in the middle of the inning after retiring the other hitters, the dissatisfied crowd unnervingly quiet.

  Jake patted Murakami’s back, his jersey damp. “It’s okay. A bad day at the office. Happens to all of us.”

  Murakami shook his head. “Tell that to Agresta.”

  “He’ll survive. That’s just the way it goes sometimes.” Jake gave him another pat, then realized Nico was staring daggers at Murakami, who slumped on the bench. Jake briefly glared down the dugout at Nico and added, “We still have a shot to tie it up or pull ahead.”

  Unfortunately, it was three up, three down in the bottom of the ninth, and that was the ballgame. The crowd shuffled out of the stadium as the team retreated to the clubhouse. Nico’s hands were balled into fists, and he kicked the side of the bench before disappearing down the steps.