Crashing the Net (3 page)

It had taken a long time for him to really accept that he wanted something different than what was expected of him. And truth be told, what he wanted more than anything or anyone else he’d ever met, was standing right in front of him.

Which really only proved he was a fucking idiot. Anyone would think he’d learned his lesson after what had happened in Quebec City the night before last, but Alexei made him want to forget.

It was way more than that body, too—spectacular though it was. Or the vivid green eyes and curling brown hair, which was wild with bed-head and just fucking
begging
Mike to run his fingers through it.

It was that Alexei looked right at him. When Alexei talked, joked, just checked to see if Mike wanted some orange juice, he never failed to catch Mike’s gaze. He didn’t talk at Mike, he spoke
to
him.
Saw
him.

Last night they’d talked about shit that
wasn’t
hockey, which was so unusual for Mike that he’d stumbled through the first half hour of the conversation. Thankfully, the game on TV had held Alexei’s attention so that he couldn’t see Mike’s red cheeks and twitchy hands.

But then Alexei had asked him about home, pretending not to notice when Mike went on about his sister, Jayne, and how proud he was of her. They talked about his last team. How long ago Alexei had come over from Russia, completely alone, at age eighteen. Alexei had been surprised Mike’s father had moved to Kingston with him, but hadn’t gotten that look in his eye. The one that said Mike was a loser for living with his dad until he was twenty-two years old. Alexei hadn’t even questioned it when Mike said it hadn’t been his idea, nor his preference, but that his dad wasn’t one of those psycho hockey-dads. Not really.

Alexei understood just how fucking great it was that Mike was on his own now. He had teased him for not being able to cook anything more complicated than a grilled cheese and his plan to live on protein shakes until he could learn. And nothing beat Alexei’s glee when Mike had admitted he liked to play chess, even if in the same sentence he’d had to confess he sucked at it. His tongue had been tied in knots, his chest tight, as Alexei leaned into him to point out the marble chess set on its own little table across the room.

This morning over breakfast the subject
was
hockey, and that was proving to be almost as foreign an experience as last night had been. Mike, of course, had spent most of his life either playing or talking about the sport, but this was different. Alexei asked him questions and listened to his answers. Like he cared. Like he believed what Mike said without checking with a coach or glancing at Mike’s father, always over Mike’s shoulder. Until now. And fuck, why hadn’t Mike figured out just how much he’d learned up until now? What he knew. Because after two hours of debating everything from the best way to tape a stick, to whether or not Sidney Crosby was hockey’s version of the Second Coming, he realized it was a hell of a lot. And Alexei—he looked like he respected that. Like he might want to talk more about shit like this.

Mike had never felt less
invisible
.

Which was a bitch, since he had to keep hiding who he really was for all he was worth.

Somehow, Mike managed to get through breakfast without embarrassing himself, mostly thanks to the table concealing the unfortunate fit of his sweatpants whenever he looked too long at Alexei. Hell, he pitched a tent worthy of the LL Bean catalog when Alexei had leaned forward, his gaze narrowed as he tried to make his point. Mike had happily argued right back, confident that his message, his idea, would be heard.

He would have gladly sat here talking all day, priapism be damned. Which meant, of course, he probably should go.

Alexei seemed to have the same idea, though Mike didn’t doubt it was for a different reason. Less than an hour after they’d cleaned up breakfast, Mike was signing the lease on a studio apartment a few blocks from Alexei’s warehouse. The building was clean and safe, and the rent was insanely cheap. Mike suspected Alexei had convinced the building manager to give him a good deal, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth and ask how.

New keys in hand, he and Alexei left to retrieve his car from the arena lot. He spent the first half of the drive telling himself not to read anything into the fact Alexei had opened the car door for him.

He couldn’t pretend he didn’t like it, though.

They pulled up beside his car in the parking lot and Alexei eyed the old Toyota, stuffed to the gills with boxes and dwarfed by Alexei’s truck. Mike wondered when he’d started to think of big trucks as being sexy.

Alexei’s voice cut into his wandering thoughts. “Where are you storing your furniture?”

“I don’t have any yet. I’ll have to go shopping over the next couple weeks.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“I have a sleeping bag.”

Mike had one hand on the door handle, about to thank Alexei and make his escape, when Alexei hit the gas and pulled back out onto the street.

“Where are we going?” Mike asked.

“Shopping.”

Mike kept his eyes glued to the road as heat crawled up his neck and into his cheeks. He had no money. Like,
none
. His plan had been to buy a blow-up mattress at Target. That and the stuff in his car would get him through the first few months. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll take care of it later.”

Alexei kept driving as if Mike hasn’t spoken.

Mike discreetly pulled out his phone and tried to determine how much room he had on his credit card.

Shit shit shit
.

In his panic, it took Mike a while to notice they’d left the city.

His over-active imagination allowed his serial killer highlight reel to run through his mind again, even as he smirked at the absurdity of it. Alexei would never hurt him.

He was about to ask what stores were out this way when Alexei turned into a massive storage facility. Concrete bunkers lined with garage doors stretched as far as the eye could see.

“What are we doing here?”

Alexei parked in front of a large door and jumped from his truck. “Come on.”

Mike followed, confused, and stood by while Alexei rolled open the storage unit door. Mike was still trying to sort out what the hell they were doing when Alexei gestured for him to help. With a few tugs, they pulled a full-size bed frame from the pile, soon followed by a mattress and box spring, a dresser, two lamps, a couch, and a decent area rug.

“What is all this stuff?” Mike asked, afraid the answer was obvious.

“Yours,” Alexei replied gruffly.

“I can’t.”

Alexei pinned him with his sharp green gaze. “You will.”

When Mike opened his mouth to protest, Alexei waved it off.

“Use this until you get your own stuff. I don’t need it, as you can see.”

“But—”

“Michael.”

At Alexei’s stern command, a wholly inappropriate curl of arousal unfurled in Mike’s belly. He loved the way Alexei’s accent added a lilt to his name, particularly since this was the first time Alexei had called him anything other than
kid
.

He opened his mouth, but his voice cut off when Alexei wrapped his big, warm hand around the back of his neck.

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

Mike spread his knees, stuck his ass in the air, and did his frog stretch. Just like he had done on the ice before every game since he could remember. Just like he would again in a week’s time when he returned to Moncton. It didn’t make any difference that they were in Quebec City. That he hadn’t been here since he’d stopped on this way to Moncton, his plans for that night having gone going terribly wrong.

Nor did it matter that it was the day before Christmas Eve and his father had come to watch the game, and then to drive Mike home afterwards for their short holiday break. A few days off should have been something to look forward to, but for Mike, it would be his own little hell.

He kicked out his right leg and gritted his teeth when his groin pulled, just a little. He needed to stop his brain and focus before he hurt himself. Or worse, fucked up this game.

He finished his stretches carefully, counting his breaths and calming his mind as he prepared to jump to his feet. Every game-night for the four months he’d been with the Ice Cats, there’d been one more step in his pre-game routine. It wasn’t exactly what anyone would call standard practice. No one else on the team even knew about it, or if they did, they hadn’t said a word. Probably didn’t know what it meant. Hell,
Mike
didn’t know what it meant. But it was the one thing—more than practice, conditioning, pep talks from the coach, or years of playing—that got him ready to bring his best to the game.

He cut his eyes to the goal and found Alexei patiently waiting. His lips twitched, then he winked.

Mike’s heart lurched, just like always.

I’m a fool.

He and Alexei were friends. Close friends, but that was
all
they were. It was a lecture he gave himself on an almost daily basis anymore. When they watched a game together from their customary spots right next to each other on the couch. When they went out with the team and were smashed together in the corner booth of one bar or another. When Mike leaned his elbows on the table, laughing with his friends and teammates and trying not to feel the heat of Alexei’s arm stretched across the back of his chair.

He didn’t harbor any delusions that Alexei would ever be interested in him as anything other than a teammate, drinking buddy, and chess opponent. But Mike couldn’t seem to stop his growing affection—layered on top of the instant attraction—for his friend.

So the wink mattered. Probably too much.

Definitely. Definitely too much.

He shook off his thoughts—ones he wouldn’t usually allow to disrupt his focus before a game, though god knew they were a constant companion off the ice—and slid into the warm up drills. He focused on the feel of his skates beneath him as he circled the goal, making and catching passes, and joining the team as they put Alexei through his paces and limbered up their arms.

Christ, it was going to be a long drive back to Saguenay. His dad would have questions. Perfectly innocent ones that any father would ask. Was Mike seeing anyone? What was her name? Hours of torture in the car because his father wanted to catch a game and spend time with his son. Which was a good thing. Or it should be. Mike’s dad was proud of him.

But that still didn’t mean Mike could tell him the truth.

His last practice shot on the net went so wide, Alexei paused to look at him and let another two sail by.

Mike scolded himself to focus on the game. The ice. His team. He shouldn’t be remembering what it had been like to be home for the whole month of July—a mistake he’d never make again. His mother’s veiled hints about how much she looked forward to having grandchildren. His father constantly nudging him to go out and meet a “nice girl”. Even Jayne, with her offers to hook him up with her friends.

It drove him crazy, and the harder he resisted, the harder they pushed. At least, his parents did. Jayne, at some point over the summer, had stopped asking. He’d wondered if she’d finally begun to clue in until he overheard her telling a friend she was convinced he was hiding a girl he didn’t want the family to know about. Yet.

Well, she got it partly right. He was definitely hiding something. And the worst part was, he knew he should tell her the truth. Tell them all the truth. But he was a chicken. He didn’t want to see the looks on his parents’ faces when he broke their hearts. There would never be a big white wedding in their church. Or a daughter-in-law who would be thrilled to take his grandmother’s china. Probably no grandkids for his father to play catch with or to take out on the ice.

So he kept silent. And they kept pressuring him, not knowing that every time they declared their interest in seeing him happy, they made him miserable
.

He’d almost come out once, the need to shout the truth choking him in the final days he’d been home before joining the Ice Cats. Instead, he’d left for Moncton a day early and quietly checked into a hotel here in Quebec City for the night. Frustration and curiosity had finally pushed him to take a risk. To wander Rue Saint-Jean and the surrounding streets, just a couple miles from where he was tonight, until he found a quiet bar with a little rainbow flag tucked in the corner of the window.

And that sure as hell hadn’t ended up the way he’d hoped.

Mike shuddered and stumbled into the bench, landing with a jarring thud. He nodded in response to Garrick’s questioning look, trying to smile reassuringly. Based on the way Garrick’s eyebrows rose beneath his helmet, Mike’s fake smile still needed some work.

Even worse, it was two minutes until game time and Mike’s focus had officially left the building.

Alexei stood ready in the net, watching his exhausted team battle into overtime, and knew that no matter what else was going on, his eyes should be absolutely glued to the puck.

He glanced at Mike again.

Something was wrong. Alexei didn’t know what, but Mike wasn’t right. Shoulders up, mouth grim, holding his stick way too tightly. It wasn’t just the drag of overtime. Alexei had known something was up the moment they’d made eye contact during the warm up.

A fact he’d been obsessing over ever since.

In all his years playing the game, Alexei had never known a more reliable, steady player than Mike. The guy was a fucking rock. Except tonight.

Alexei itched to figure out what was going on. And no, it wasn’t any of his business, but he was going to butt in anyway. The Ice Cats just needed to score. Hell, at this point, Alexei almost didn’t care if the other guys scored. The game just needed to be
over
.

His eyes followed the puck, as they fucking well should, as it sailed across the ice. Mike caught it on his blade, set it, and with a mighty swing, shot a rocket from the point.

Goal!

Alexei exploded from the net as the team crashed into Mike, their gloved hands banging on his helmet as he grinned. Alexei slammed into the pile and Mike turned, opening a space and wrapping his arm around Alexei’s waist. Pulling him in tight.