Overtime

A week after the Spitfires fell to the odious Asheville Ravens in the Kelly Cup playoffs, general manager Jack Belsey called Isaac into his office and told him to close the door.

Isaac was convinced he was about to get traded.

What he got instead was a credit card, a set of tickets and a hotel reservation in Asheville, North Carolina. It took Isaac a few seconds to work out that the Spitfires’ general manager was sending his players to cheer against the team that had knocked them out of the playoffs.

The Jacksonville Sea Storm were up two games to none in their series with the Ravens, and Isaac was giddy at the idea of watching their rivals lose on home ice.

“Drake, this is one of those things you don’t tell Coach Samarin,” Belsey said, holding out an envelope and what appeared to be an American Express black card, which until that point Isaac thought was just an urban legend. “You know how he is.”

Isaac had agreed not to tell Misha, even though he felt a bit like he was making a deal with the devil. Although the devil was supposed to be hot, wasn’t he? Belsey was more like Hell’s middle-management. If that.

At any rate, Isaac took the mysterious magic credit card, the envelope full of game tickets and started calling his teammates.

*  *  *

The game didn’t go well for the Ravens, and midway through, Isaac had conflicting emotions of feeling really smug about that and also kind of awful that he
did
 feel so good about it.
 

Part of that was because of Xavier Matthews, who was a decent guy and who looked miserable playing for the Ravens when they were
winning
, much less getting their asses kicked by the Sea Storm
. Isaac and Xavier had hooked up a few times the season prior, and it had been fun but Xavier was firmly in the closet, and besides. All of Isaac’s ability to commit was being channeled into his team and his goaltending.

Not all of the guys had elected to go on the trip to Asheville. Isaac’s back-up goalie, Anthony Lathrop, had retired at the end of the season and they didn’t have another one signed yet. Shawn Murphy, one of Isaac’s best friends on the team, was on vacation with his girlfriend. Matt Huxley, Isaac’s other best friend and former roommate, was there, but a lot of the guys had already gone home for the summer.

Still, there were enough Spitfires there that the Ravens had to notice -- their fans certainly did. Isaac and his teammates weren’t dressed in anything with the Spitfires’ logo on it (and they might be cheering for the Storm, but there was no way they’d wear anyone’s logo but their own -- especially since the Storm’s was so ridiculous), but it probably didn’t take a genius to know they were all hockey players. They watched the game like they watched it on the bench, standing and pointing and yelling
en masse
.  

Like a squadron. Goddamn, Isaac loved his fucking team.

The Ravens lost the game, 4-2.  Cheering felt cathartic, like the lingering anger Isaac was carrying from that last Spitfires-Ravens game was pouring out of him, drained by his unabashed glee in his hated rivals’ defeat. The Spitfires had a pretty great party that night, and unfortunately the Storm couldn’t join them because they still had to play the next day -- in a game that would hopefully result in the Ravens’ being swept right out of the playoffs.

At the game, Isaac sat next to Ethan Kennedy, a former enforcer for the Sea Storm who was there to cheer on his boyfriend, goalie Riley Hunter. Ethan was a scrappy guy with a buzzed haircut and a lot of tattoos, who talked in a thick New York accent around a straw he was chewing. It was an attempt, he told Isaac, to finally quit smoking. Next to Ethan sat a serious dark-haired girl
who hardly looked away from the ice and kept muttering, “I’m pretty sure that was goalie interference,” every time someone got too close to the crease.

Her staunch defense of the goalie won Isaac’s heart, and Ethan introduced her as Hunter’s sister, Madison. She also half-stood whenever one of the Storm’s forwards -- fucking Bennett Halley, he’d scored on Isaac three times in that early-season game against the Storm last season -- got the puck.

“Ugh, dating someone and being related to someone else on the same team is too stressful,” said Madison. She jabbed Ethan with her elbow. “I’m glad you’re not on the ice or I’d have to be worried about you, too.”

“Nah,” said Kennedy, slinging an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in for a hug.  “I only ever got in fights and I always won.”

Hux, who was sitting on Isaac’s other side, leaned over. “The hell you did, Kennedy.”

Kennedy grinned at him. “Hey, come on, it’s a rule that retired guys get to say they won all their fights.”

“That so?” asked Hux, sounding dubious. “Who’d you hear that from?”

“Jared Shore.” Ethan held his fist out and said solemnly, “But you did hit really fucking hard, man.”

“Yeah?” Hux smiled, trapping Isaac between the two of them as he leaned closer to fistbump Ethan. “Thanks.”

The Ravens sat silent on the bench, looking for all the world like they were awaiting a trundle cart to take them to be executed. They played with a sick sort of desperation that almost made Isaac feel sorry for them, except he could tell they were doing their level best to piss the Storm off by trash-talking their players on the ice. As usual, the Ravens played a dirty game, and were called more than once for embellishment (referred to by everyone but the refs as “diving”) and unsportsmanlike conduct. Isaac could see Xavier’s frustration clear as day, and a few times Xavier even hit his stick on the ice.

Isaac had no idea why the hell Xavier didn’t ask for a trade. He was a good player, and his family was from Asheville but Isaac knew they were super religious and a main reason why Xavier was in the closet. Why the hell didn’t he try to get his fine ass out of here and find a better team? Maybe he’d get traded to the Spitfires during the off-season. That’d be cool.

As the game progressed, Isaac found his attention focused almost exclusively on the Ravens’ goalie, Laurent St. Savoy. He was the son of the Ravens’ horrible coach, and during the playoffs last year he’d refused to fight Isaac, pushed him down and then spit on him and called him a fag. It was a goddamn tragedy that the guy was such a worthless human being, because he was a talented goalie...who would have been seriously hot if he wasn’t such a fucking jerk.

The Storm won the game easily -- almost
too
easily, Isaac thought, frowning as St. Savoy let in a couple of soft goals that gave the Storm a comfortable two-goal lead. He knew enough about St. Savoy, Jr.’s goaltending to know he was better than the performance he was turning in on the ice. Isaac imagined St. Savoy, Sr. wasn’t going to be very happy with his son after the game.

When the Ravens had won their series against the Spitfires, they’d ignored the traditional postgame handshake line like the team of assholes they were. Unsurprisingly, they pulled the same shit with the Storm when the game was over, skating toward the tunnel without even acknowledging their fans.

Laurent St. Savoy was the last one off the ice, and as he passed Isaac he turned his head slightly so their eyes met. It only lasted for a second, and as Isaac stood there and watched Laurent skate away, he wondered why he wasn’t happier to see him fail.

* * *

By the time Isaac returned to Spartanburg the next day, he was tired, hung-over and cranky and wanted nothing more in the world than to fall asleep in his own bed and forget about that hollow-eyed stare Laurent had given him on his way off the ice. After Hux dropped him off at Misha’s, Isaac went directly to his room, tossed his smudged sunglasses on his dresser and fell into bed without even taking his shoes off.

He woke up eight hours later, confused and starving and smelling like cigarette smoke (Ethan’s straw hadn’t gotten him through the epic party they’d had after that win). Making a face at himself, Isaac showered and dressed in clean clothes, then headed downstairs to get something to eat.

He noticed immediately that the house smelled like something delicious -- Misha’s pirozhki, hopefully -- and his stomach growled as he entered the kitchen. “Hey. You got two or three dozen extra of those I can have? I’m starving.”

Misha was wearing jeans and a plain t-shirt, his blond hair damp as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. It was weird to see Misha dressed like...well, like a normal guy. He nodded and waved a hand towards the cabinet. “Get a plate.”

Misha was a man of few words. Isaac didn’t mind. “Thanks.” He went and grabbed a plate, still a little weirded out that he was living here. A lot of that had to do with the other man in the kitchen, Max Ashford, who was the Spitfires’ assistant coach and also Misha’s boyfriend.

Max was hot as hell, and unlike that asshole St. Savoy, Jr, he actually had a personality as attractive as his appearance. Isaac hadn’t been quite sure what to think about Max at first, because Max’s sunny, optimistic personality immediately made Isaac think he was trying too hard to get everyone to like him. It hadn’t taken long for Isaac to realize that Max really was that friendly, and he was the perfect foil for Misha’s serious nature and stern demeanor.

“Told you he’d show up in time for food, didn’t I,” Max said, giving Misha that bright smile of his.

Misha dished out the pirozhki, the smallest of smiles curving his mouth as he handed Max a plate. “You did, yes.”

Ugh. They were so disgustingly perfect together. Isaac forked up one of the pirozhki and took a bite. “You two are gonna ruin my appetite,” he said, but he didn’t really mean it. He was so hungry, he doubted anything -- even Laurent St. Savoy -- could do that.

“So, you were out of town for a few days,” said Max, in a terrible attempt at sounding casual.

“I miss curfew again?” Isaac asked, thirstily drinking half of the glass of milk -- milk, for fuck’s sake -- that Misha put in front of him.

“Yeah. You’re grounded.” Max smirked at Isaac over his glass of iced tea. Why didn’t
he
have to drink milk?

Isaac glared at him, both for that comment and Max’s grown-up beverage option. “You’re only like, five years older than me, Coach Ashford. Tops.”

“Six, I think,” said Max, cheerful as ever. “And you’re right. It’s Misha’s house. I guess he’ll have to ground you.”

“No one is grounded,” Misha said, as if they were having a serious conversation. He always ate standing up at the island, while Max and Isaac took the two barstools for themselves. At first Isaac felt bad about that, as if he’d stolen Misha’s chair, but Max assured Isaac that Misha always did that so he shouldn’t worry.

Isaac ate three pirozhki and drank his milk, switching it for iced tea and downing three glasses before Max asked, “Hung over?” At Isaac’s huff, he laughed. “I went to college, Isaac. Also I played hockey in Montreal. If anything’ll make you want to drink too much, it’s that.”

Isaac wasn’t sure what to say, so he looked down at his plate. Belsey hadn’t wanted him to tell Misha about the trip to Asheville, but suddenly Isaac felt like he was seventeen and lying to his parents. Groaning inwardly, he hurriedly ate another pirozhki. This was ridiculous. He was old enough to drink, and he wasn’t a teenager.

 “Yeah, partied a little too hard last night. Not really something I do all that often,” he couldn’t help adding. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna, like, invite people over and trash your house, Misha.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Misha was giving him that look of his, the perceptive one that said he could look right into Isaac’s very soul and see anything he wanted with ease. But he didn’t say anything, just kept eating...and damn if Isaac didn’t feel even
guiltier
. What the hell?

“Were you partying because the Ravens lost?” Max stood up and took his plate over to the sink. “We did a few shots ourselves in celebration.”

“Max,” Misha said sternly.

“What? We did.”

Isaac didn’t want to talk about this, so he hurriedly carried his own dishes to the sink. “Hey, I’ll take care of these. Since you guys cooked.”

“Misha cooked,” Max reminded him. “You know he never lets me help.”

“Once, you asked me if teaspoons and tablespoons were the same thing,” Misha pointed out. “This is why.”

Isaac snorted a laugh and went back to the dishes, making sure everything was clean so he could avoid talking to his coaches. It was dumb, but he couldn’t help thinking that Misha would be disappointed if he knew that Isaac had gone to watch their rivals lose.