Power Play (12 page)

Max rolled his eyes at himself, but he didn’t stop stroking Misha’s hair. He had thick hair, all blond, but up close Max could see a few strands of white mixed in. Max grinned. He fully intended to give Misha a lot more.

Misha’s eyes opened eventually, and he looked right at Max. He said something in Russian and then repeated it until he finally remembered that Max had not studied Russian long enough to include sentences.

“Hi,” Max said. He felt kind of stupid getting caught playing with Misha’s hair, so he dropped his hand and tried to be casual about it. “You okay?”

Misha nodded. “Yes. Migraine. Took medicine. Fell asleep.”

“I saw the bottle. I can’t believe you actually took one.”

Misha smiled a little. “Had meeting with Belsey. Enough torture for day.”

When Misha dropped his articles, it meant he was either worked up or relaxed. Or still half-asleep and kind of drugged. That probably meant it was a good time to ask about having the Spitfires’ Thanksgiving at his house. Offensive advantage. Clearly Max was a brilliant strategist. Coaching was definitely his calling.

“So, I was cleaning my apartment and, umm… I sort of maybe… well, you know how I invited anyone who didn’t have a place to go to my place for Thanksgiving?” Max said as brightly as he could. “’Cause of how I’m nice like that.”

Misha gave him the laser eyes, which were still intense, even when he was kind of out of it. “Nice. Yes. Or maybe crazy.”

Max made a face, though he couldn’t deny that. “I maybe have most of, ah. The team. Coming over to my place for Thanksgiving.”

Misha’s laser eyes narrowed. “You do not have room for team.” He cleared his throat. “
The
team.”

Thanks, Coach Obvious. “I know.” Max grinned. “You do. How many blowjobs will it take to convince you to host it instead?”

Misha put his hands behind his head. He appeared to be considering it. “Hmm. Maybe I think, one for every guest.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Samarin,” Max said and leaned in to kiss him. “Thanks. Seriously I’m sorry. I sometimes get in over my head with things.”

Misha’s face went all serious, but before he could brood at him, Max kissed him again. “Want me to order dinner? I got a coupon for pizza. Or that Thai place. But remember, it took them six hours to deliver the last time we ordered from there.”

“Time for you to get started on those blowjobs you owe me,” said Misha.

Max grinned and took out his phone.

WHEN MAX
was growing up, he thought everyone’s parents were like his.

It took him until junior high to realize that wasn’t true. His parents had the sort of love story you find in a teen rom-com. His mom was the star student athlete and lacrosse player, and his father was the bookish, smart kid who tutored her in algebra senior year of high school. They got married at nineteen against everyone’s advice, conquered college together, had two kids, and were still as happy as they appeared in their wedding photos.

His parents’ relationship always seemed so easy to Max, who thought that, because things were relatively stress free with Emma, his own marriage would be the same way. Except with Emma, apparently easy meant easy to leave. And not just for her, either. Max had always assumed it was the accident and the stress of losing his career that distracted him from the heartbreak of losing her, but he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Maybe his parents didn’t have an easy relationship. Maybe they just had one that worked. Like a hockey team, they were perfectly in synch with each other, but only with a lot of hard work and practice.

Max picked up his parents from the airport the day before Thanksgiving and gave them a quick-and-dirty—literally, if his mom’s expression at the state of his bedroom and laundry was anything to go by—tour of his apartment. Then he took them to their hotel, and when he told his mom that they were hosting Thanksgiving for the whole hockey team, she insisted on going grocery shopping. She took it all in stride, mainly because Max promised her a gourmet kitchen, a sous-chef who wasn’t him, and that dinner would be at Misha’s.

Max wasn’t sure what to tell them about Misha—or if he should. And it wasn’t because of the accident. When she found out he was coaching with Misha, his mom reminded Max to be polite and remember that he didn’t hurt Max on purpose. He wasn’t sure his parents would care about him being with a man because they were fairly liberal. His dad complained about the government and taxes, but his dad was an accountant. He always told Max and his brother, Scott, that being gay was perfectly acceptable and that it wasn’t a choice or a reason to dislike someone.

But Max wasn’t sure if being bisexual and being with a man
was
a choice he was making. All he knew was that it was not the time to figure it out, given his parents were only visiting for a few days and they had to feed a tribe of hungry hockey players a holiday meal. Besides, Misha was already nervous enough about meeting Max’s parents. He didn’t need to add “Oh, and let’s tell them you’re my boyfriend,” to the mix.

Suzanne Ashford was a pro in the grocery store, and she had the groceries selected, bagged, and paid for—over Max’s protests—in less than an hour. Max drove to Misha’s, tried his best to act like it was no big deal, and failed miserably. He talked too much and he knew it. Finally his mom interrupted a long and pointless story about the repairs for his Jeep with “Honey, you don’t have to worry. Your father and I are fine with seeing Misha again.”

Wait. What? “Again?” Max looked at his mom, who insisted on riding in the backseat of the Jeep because it was “fun.” He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “You’ve never seen him before.”

“Well, we’ve never met him,” she said. “But we saw him at the hospital, shortly after they brought you there. I wanted to tell him that we didn’t blame him for anything and that it was just an accident, but he looked so…. Well. I didn’t think he wanted to be interrupted.”

“Misha visited me at the hospital?” Max almost ran a red light. He endured the parental scolding that accompanied his lack of driving skills and tried to process the information. “Huh. I had no idea.”

“You were asleep and on a lot of medication. It was right after they figured out what happened.” His mom always spoke of the accident as something regrettable but not devastating. Max realized how important it had been for him during his recovery—especially mentally—to be around someone who reinforced that attitude. His parents never acted like his life was over, just that it was time to find a new direction for it. And they never said a single bad word about Misha around him either.

That made him relax a little, but it didn’t entirely erase his nerves at introducing Misha to his parents. That had more to do with the fact that Max was falling for Misha like the temperatures in a Minnesota winter, and the realization nearly made him run another red light. He was still legally able to drive, even though the accident had messed up his peripheral vision.

“Max,” his father said. “I think you need a safer car if this is how you drive.”

“I think you need a learner’s permit,” his mother responded. They both laughed.

Max caught them giving each other a look in the rearview mirror. He suddenly wondered what his mom had thought about Emma, but they were pulling into Misha’s driveway, and it wasn’t the time for that conversation.

Misha met them at the door, and Max could tell he was nervous. He had his coach face on, which was seriously hot but also made him look unapproachable. Max gave him an encouraging smile, but Misha just looked at him like Max was a rookie about to earn himself a bag skate.

“Mom, Dad, this is Misha Samarin,” Max said. “Misha, these are my parents, Suzanne and Jim.”

Max’s mom beamed and moved to shake Misha’s hand. “It’s so good to meet you, Misha. May I call you that? I know there are rules about Russian names. Isn’t that right?”

There were? That was news to Max.

“Is short for Mikhail. Yes,” said Misha, and his accent was heavier than usual. He was either nervous or doing it on purpose, though Max thought he only did the latter with Belsey. “But Misha is fine, of course.” Misha shook his mom’s hand and then his dad’s, and his eyes flickered nervously to Max, but he didn’t say anything.

“Is it okay that
I
call you Misha?” Max asked slyly as they unloaded the groceries from the back of the Jeep.

“Now you ask me?” There was maybe, just maybe, a tiny hint of warmth in Misha’s voice. “I suppose.”

Max smiled and hefted what felt like two bags full of bowling balls into his arms. Then he went inside to find his mother exclaiming over the kitchen.

“Oh, Misha. Bless you for volunteering your home. If I had to cook anything in Max’s kitchen, I might weep.”

“It’s not that bad,” Max muttered. “I just don’t have a lot of stuff.” Like dishes. Or potholders. Or any idea how to cook things that need an appliance other than the microwave.

“We brought you a gift, Misha,” Max’s father said, and handed Misha something in a paper bag, and he took it with his usual somber gratitude.

Max had no idea what it was. He didn’t remember his parents specifically picking anything out for Misha, but he had a horrifying idea of what might be in the bag.

“Thank you,” said Misha, and Max had to turn away to hide the smile as Misha put yet another bottle of midshelf vodka in the freezer.

Max made a note to look up “Like father, like son” in his Russian book.

As they put away groceries and assembled supplies, their conversation was easy and relaxed, centering mostly around the Spitfires. Max made everyone laugh with a retelling of the Jackhammers Bench Brawl—even Misha, though it was a subdued sort of chuckle. His parents enjoyed hearing about the various personalities on their team, though his mother made a face when Max mentioned Belsey.

“That man,” she said and then shook her head and pretended to zip her lips. “That’s all I’ll say about that. He better not show up tomorrow. He is
not
getting any of my casserole.”

“He wasn’t invited,” Max assured her. The mention of Belsey seemed to put a damper on the conversation for a moment. Belsey had that effect on people. But Max’s dad restored the equilibrium by asking Misha about his past coaching experience.

Max was worried that Misha might fall back into his “cold and miserable Russian angst bucket” mode thanks to the mention of Belsey, but that didn’t happen. Misha did tense up a fraction when he mentioned coaching with the Boston Bruins’ AHL team in Providence, and Max expelled a breath when his parents reigned in their instinct to boo anything related to the Bruins. His dad had hated them long before his son played for their rivals. Max playing for the Habs just made it more convenient.

The conversation switched to recipes and a baking plan, which Max tuned out. The less he was involved with the actual cooking, the better. He and his father chopped things, sliced things, and assembled various casseroles into dishes as instructed. By the time they prepped everything, Misha and Max’s mom seemed to have bonded over their ability to prepare grown-up food. It was a start.

Max had seen Misha rubbing at his temples a time or two, which he hoped didn’t mean Misha had a migraine.

“If you have a migraine tomorrow, you totally need to take your medicine instead of drinking vodka,” Max told Misha and hit him lightly on the shoulder.

Misha scowled at him. “I do not have a migraine.”

“I didn’t say you did. I just said to take your medicine if you get one.” Max waved a hand. “Don’t do that thing, the exist—exa—that thing you do.”

Misha blinked at him. “I have no idea what word you are trying to say.”

Max was going to program that stupid word into his phone so he could remember what it was. “That word that Belsey uses. About literature? Look. That’s not the important thing. The important thing is—”

“Existentialist? Is that the word?”

Max crossed his arms. “Yes. Thanks for interrupting.”

“You were looking for the word. I was helping.” Misha popped a piece of a carrot into his mouth. His expression was as reserved as ever, but Max would bet his abysmally small paycheck that there was a sparkle in those dark eyes.

“Uh-huh. Promise you will take a pill and not lock yourself in the bedroom and leave me with all these hungry athletes and food.”

“I won’t,” Misha assured him. “I am afraid of what might happen to my kitchen.”

Max heard a discreet cough and realized that he’d forgotten all about his parents. His face flushed, but he put on a normal-ish smile and turned around. There was nothing weird about that conversation, was there? Just a guy reminding his friend to take drugs instead of drinking away the migraines he sometimes got and needed to lay down in a dark room to get rid of.

Totally normal. “You guys want to head back to the hotel now?” Max still owed Misha quite a few blowjobs and thought it might help Misha relax before what was sure to be a chaotic day.

“Unless we’re all planning a sleepover,” his father deadpanned. He didn’t exchange a look with Max’s mom that said, “our son is banging the coach.” Not that Max knew precisely what that would look like. Hopefully he hadn’t just made it clear as day that he spent most of his time there and that his apartment was little more than a dusty, kind-of-messy storage locker.

Max drove his parents back to the hotel and wondered if they were going to say anything or if he was just being paranoid. When they got out of the Jeep, they both hugged him and said how glad they were that he and Misha seemed to be friends and that they were proud of him for not letting the accident get in the way.

Typical Ashford-family party line, so Max relaxed and figured he was in the clear. He wanted his parents to know, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to surprise his parents with his bisexuality the day before hosting twentysomething people for Thanksgiving dinner. They might not have a problem with it, but it would still be a shock, and he’d like a chance to talk to them about it, rather than just say, “Hey, I’m bisexual now, and can you pass the potatoes?”

When he got back to Misha’s, he found him standing in the same place he’d left him, as if he hadn’t moved a single muscle in the time Max had been gone. “Hey,” Max said, coming up beside him. “That went fine. See? They like you. They said it was great we were friends.”