Power Play (17 page)

“Hey, Misha?”

“Yes, Max?”

Max opened his mouth, fiddled with the afghan, and realized he had no idea how to go about initiating phone sex. “What are you wearing?”

“Why?”

Okay. That was a stupid opening. He should just go for it. It was Misha, for Christ’s sake. He could do it. “I wish I could blow you,” Max said hurriedly, but with a furtive look around the room as if he were worried about getting caught. He also had his hand covering his mouth and the phone, so it sounded a lot more sinister than he intended.

“Ah, what was that?”

Max pulled the afghan over his head. It was covered in holes, so not much help. Maybe he should have used text messaging, but it would be Christmas morning before they were finished if he had to wait for Misha’s replies. “I said,” he murmured, trying to sound sexy, “I wish I could blow you.”

That at least stopped Misha’s laughing at him. “Mmm. That would be nice.”

That was Max’s brilliant opening salvo, and he had to bite back a laugh. “I’m not very good at this phone-sex thing.” Max reached under his pajama pants to touch himself, but his hand was freezing, and no way was that going anywhere near his cock. He finally brought it up to his mouth and blew gently on his skin to warm it up.

“I don’t think blowing in my ear like that is the same as a blowjob,” said Misha.

Max snorted and finally eased his hand down his pajamas again. “I was warming my hand up, thank you very much. It’s so cold down here it might be snowing.”

“You’re right, Max. You’re not very good at this at all,” said Misha, but he sounded so amused that Max could almost see him smiling. That rare smile of his, the one that made the lines crinkle up by his eyes.

“You could help, you know,” Max huffed, giving his cock a long stroke. It felt good, but also ridiculous, like he was doing it… well, in the basement over the Christmas holidays with his family asleep upstairs.

Misha said something in Russian. Max didn’t know what it was, but hearing Misha speaking Russian so close to his ear warmed him up more than the stupid blanket with the holes or his still-cold hand.

“Yeah?” said Max, breathing a little heavier, even though he had no idea what Misha was actually saying. “Tell me… ah. More about that.”

“This is the strangest fetish,” Misha said in English.

Max, who was getting nice and warm, stopped stroking his cock and scowled. “It is not. It isn’t. I bet I could find weirder ones. Actually go check your Internet browsing history, because I probably have. I’m not apologizing for looking up porn at your house, by the way. Your Internet connection is way faster than mine.”

Misha went back to Russian, and Max panted a little louder and rubbed his thumb over the head of his cock. “I want you to fuck me again. When I get home. Want it hard. Want you to bend me over the couch. Or your desk. Fuck.”

He heard Misha’s soft inhalation of breath as the unfamiliar words paused. “Yes.”

Luckily once he got warmed up to the idea, Max’s phone-sex skills seemed to be improving. “Tell me you want to fuck me.”

Misha’s voice was almost a growl. “I want to fuck you.”

“Hard?”

Misha answered, but not in English.

“Yeah,” Max breathed quietly and his eyes slid closed. “You… get yourself off. Thinking about that. About me, and fucking me hard.” His performance was definitely improving. Especially if the noise Misha made on the other end of the phone was any indication. “And tell me… what you want to do to me.”

Misha told him, and while Max couldn’t understand a goddamn word of it, it didn’t stop him from having to hurriedly pull his shirt over his head so he could avoid making a mess on the couch when he came. Luckily he was flushed and damp with sweat, because all he was wearing was a pair of pajama pants shoved down his hips and a blanket of barely connected strings.

“You liked that?” Misha’s voice was heavy and so accented that it took Max’s sex-fogged brain a minute to realize the words were English. And that they formed a question that he should answer.

“Oh, yeah.” Max frowned. “Did you get off?” Suddenly he felt bad. “I can say some more stuff if you didn’t.”

“I… ah.” Misha chuckled. “Yes. But earlier. Before you called.”

Max smiled, pulling up his pants and getting to his feet so he could head back upstairs. “Were you thinking about me? Is that what you meant?”

“No. I meant Belsey,” Misha mimicked Max’s answer from earlier and went so far as to try to sound American.

“I do not sound like a cowboy, Misha.” Max grabbed a few cookies from the kitchen on his way upstairs. “Are you going to tell me all that stuff you said earlier, but in English? When I get home, I mean.”

“When you get home. Yes.” Misha’s voice went all quiet. “Spokoynoy nochi, Lisenok.”

Max recognized good night, but he had no idea what the rest of it meant. “Good night, Misha.” He chewed on his bottom lip, half tempted to say more, but in the end he just said, “I was serious about fucking me over your desk, by the way,” then hung up and went to find a clean shirt.

ON CHRISTMAS
Eve, Scott and Vanessa decided to hook up their family Christmas present, which was a new television. Max helped his brother take the old one downstairs— and pointedly avoided looking at the couch or glaring at the blanket-full-of-holes. He couldn’t help the murderous look he threw his brother when Scott said, “Oh, we should open the vent down here. It’s freezing.” He flipped something on the ceiling that allowed wonderful warm air to flood the small room.

Scott was way better with diagrams and figuring out if things were level or not, so Max just obediently held the television and moved incrementally this way and that, until Scott was satisfied. All the while he ran through several different potential versions of how to come out to his brother.

In the end he waited until they were enjoying a “post hooking up the television” beer and said, “So I really think you need a sleeper sofa in the basement. Because I’m bringing Misha with me next year, and I really don’t think we’ll both fit in Schyler’s bed. Also I’m buying you a blanket without holes in it.”

Scott stared at him. “You’re—wait. What?”

“You told Schyler it was okay,” Max protested very quickly. “I heard you.”

Scott blinked. “I did?”

“Well, she had to learn that whole “it’s okay to kiss your best friend” thing from somewhere. It was from you guys, right? You’re her parents. Schools probably don’t talk about kissing. Do they?” Max took a hurried drink from his beer bottle, looking wide-eyed at his older brother.
Say something already.

Scott and Max had always gotten along, despite their age difference and their complete lack of interest in one another’s hobbies. Or maybe it was because of that. The idea of Scott hating him because of Misha was unthinkable to Max, but what if it happened?

“Oh,” Scott said, finally getting it. He blushed easily too. That must be an Ashford-family trait. “I thought you meant—never mind.” He studied Max thoughtfully. “It makes sense. You are around guys a lot.”

“I’m a hockey coach.”

“Well, there you go.” Scott took a drink of his beer. “It’s cool with me, bro. I just…. Have you always known? You never said anything growing up. You weren’t…. I mean, you didn’t think I’d hate you or anything. Right?”

“Of course not,” Max assured him, though he’d been worried about that exact thing not three seconds before. “But you’re not surprised? Not even a little?”

“Maybe a little,” Scott admitted. “And Misha? That’s gotta be kind of awkward, because of the whole… y’know.”

“It was an accident, Scott. And he’s a good guy. You’ll like him.”

“I figure. Mom thought he was
lovely
. You know how she says that about people.”

Max did, and it made him smile. “Yeah. And she did like him. I told her,” Max assured his brother and then amended, “Or you know how Mom is. She figured it out. But I’m gonna tell Dad, and you can tell Vanessa. Unless you want me to.”

“Nah. I will. Because she totally thought you were lying when you said you were texting Misha. She thought it was a girl.” Scott snorted. “You really were smiling like a dope at your phone. So I’m guessing it’s serious?”

“Yeah.” Max pulled at the label on his beer bottle. “I think it is. But I wouldn’t want you to hate him or anything because of the accident, even if it weren’t. I mean, it’s not like it didn’t ruin his career too. Did you know they suspended him for fifteen games? He has a Stanley Cup ring, and he’s never even worn it.” He never let Max see it either. Max was going to have to work on that one. He fully intended to get one of his own someday, for coaching, but there was no reason he couldn’t just wear Misha’s around the house. For an hour or two.

Scott reached out and put a hand on Max’s shoulder. “I know, Max. What did you think I was going to do, forbid him from entering my house? If you love him, then I’m sure we will too.”

Max groaned and hit his head on the back of the sofa. “This is like a Christmas special on television.” He laughed. “Oh, man. You know what I just realized? Me and Misha could totally dress up for Halloween as the Grinch and Max, the dog. It’d be awesome. Misha is tall and looks sad a lot, and I’m…. Well, me.”

“He looks sad?”

“Well. He’s Russian,” Max said, as if that explained it. “Turns out, Scott, they’re either Bond villains or really moody.”

Scott just shook his head. “You gonna tell anyone else in the family?”

“You think I should?”

“I think it’ll be fine. Well. Maybe don’t tell Aunt Helen. Although she might surprise you and collect enough rations in the cave in case Misha joins us when the world ends.”

“Don’t let Dad hear you encouraging her survivalist fantasies,” Max warned. Their father’s sister was convinced the government was going to end the world with the help of aliens or something, and was always stockpiling cans of food in case it happened sooner rather than later.

“Speaking of Dad….” Scott raised his eyebrows. “You should tell him. You know he hates being the last to know things.”

“I will. Hey, Scott?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” Max said gruffly, and he and his brother hugged briefly and faced each other with matching Ashford-red blushes on their face.

“You’re my brother, Max. I love you even if you date Bond villains or the Grinch. And yes, by the way. I
did
teach Schyler that it’s okay to kiss your best friend, even if it’s a girl. You know why?”

Max shook his head.

“Because one day she asked me, ‘Daddy, how will I know when I have a person to live with and have a house and watch grown-up movies with, like you and Mommy?’ And I told her, ‘Honey, you’ll know when it’s right because they’ll be your best friend and you’ll like kissing them.’ And she said, ‘But what if I have a girl best friend like Mommy?’ And I said, ‘Schyler, if you end up with a girl like your mommy then you’ll be just as lucky as I am.’”

Max smiled, charmed by the story and the simple, heartfelt way in which his brother delivered it. “Did you ever tell Vanessa that story?”

“How do you think we’re ending up with number four on the way?” Scott asked, smiling a bit evilly.

Max grinned. “You old dog.”

“Right. Well. What can I say? My wife is hot as hell, and we have great kids, so why not have some more? So does this mean you and Jason Nichols were a thing back in college? Because I thought you were, and Mom said you guys were just
teammates
.”

“We were,” Max protested, laughing. But then he thought about it. “I probably did have a crush on him,” he admitted. “But no way did I realize that until right now. It was… it wasn’t just Misha. I had ideas but I didn’t do anything about them until… ah. You know that trip to Mexico?”

“You banged dudes on the trip that was supposed to be your honeymoon with the Snob?” Scott’s eyes widened. “Uh. Sorry. It’s just, Emma was…. Well, Vanessa always called her that and it kind of stuck.”

“Good thing you knocked her up already, ’cause blaming her for that would not get you laid, I bet,” Max said. “And yeah. I
banged dudes
on the trip that was supposed to be my honeymoon. Kind of. I’m not giving you the details, but it was… eye-opening.”

“Uh-huh.” Scott held out his fist. “Latent bisexuality, huh? That’s going to be a tough one for me to beat. You think I should tell Mom and Dad how me and Vanessa went to that Swingers club one time?”

“Yeah. But leave out the part where it was an accident,” Max joked.

Max knew there was no way his mom could keep anything from his father, so all he had to do was find him in the kitchen fixing a sandwich and say, “Can we pretend I told you about the whole Misha thing, instead of Mom?”

“I’m sorry, who is that talking? Is it my son? I only have the one.” His back was to Max, and his shoulders were shaking. “I had another one, but I disowned him for deciding it was in any way acceptable to date a Bruin.” The laughter finally escaped, and Max’s dad turned around and held out his arms for a hug.

Max made a mental note to never let Misha wear a Bruins shirt around his dad, and that was that.

A FEW
weeks after the New Year, Misha walked into the locker room to the sound of shouting. It immediately went quiet when he entered, which was suspicious. When the team argued about hockey, they just kept yelling when Misha came in the room. When it was about something else, they shut up like obstinate, angry little clams.

“There is a problem?” Misha asked, feeling the beginnings of a headache. His migraines had been suspiciously absent of late, and their return was giving him the slightest hint of imminent disaster.

Jakob had spent Christmas Day at Misha’s with Isaac Drake and a few others who hadn’t gone home for whatever reason, and he had been acting oddly ever since. In fact on Christmas, Misha went to refill his glass and came back to find Jakob hastily throwing on his coat and leaving with a barely muttered, “Thanks, Coach.” When Misha attempted to find out what the problem was, the temperamental goalie brushed past Misha into the kitchen, helped himself to Misha’s good vodka, and got so drunk he had to sleep on Misha’s couch.