Overtime (2 page)

Isaac tried calling Hux to see if Hux wanted to play some video games, but Hux’s phone went straight to voicemail meaning he was probably still asleep. Isaac could hear his coaches talking in the living room and the desire to go in there, flop on the loveseat and watch “Breaking Bad” with them was almost overwhelming. So much so that Isaac refused to let himself do it, because that would make him feel guilty again about going to Asheville and he’d end up telling them.

You’re going to tell Misha and you know it.

Without anything else to do but avoid the truth, Isaac spent a few hours doing nothing but wasting time on his laptop. He briefly considered buying himself some sex toys off Amazon with Belsey’s  fancy American Express card, signed into Cockyboys and disinterestedly thought about jacking off, then gave up and went downstairs to get a snack and another glass of tea. The living room was dark, but when he walked into the kitchen he came face-to-face with Misha, who was standing at the sink.  

Misha, who was wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung pajama pants, was filling and refilling a glass of water, and there was a slight sheen of sweat on him. Unless he was in a habit of late-night treadmill workouts while barefoot, there was only one thing he’d been doing to make him all sweaty and thirsty.

Max.

Isaac stared at his coach, unable to help it. Misha was in good shape, which he knew from their Wednesday night hockey pick-up games, but he’d never seen his coach without a shirt before. Misha also had tattoos, a lot of them, and Isaac had definitely not expected that to be so...huh. Hot. Misha was totally not his type, but there was no denying the appeal of him standing there shirtless and tattooed, skin gleaming with sweat.

“Um,” said Isaac. No wonder Coach Ashford was always in a good mood, goddamn.

Misha compounded the situation by grinning at him, shoving a hand through his sweat-dampened blond hair and pushing it off his forehead. Isaac was used to Misha in a suit and scowling, not bare-chested and smiling. “Something bothering you, Isaac?” Even his accent was more pronounced than usual.

Something was bothering Isaac, and it wasn’t just how he found shirtless Misha sort of hot. “You, uh...want to play some hockey tomorrow?”

Misha gave him a skeptical once-over, but he filled up the glass at the sink, drank it all, then went over to the fridge where he used the filtered water in the door to refill the glass again. “Yes, all right.”

“Did you just remember about the filtered water?” Isaac asked, to cover the embarrassment from staring so blatantly at his half-naked coach.

“Ah.” Misha cleared his throat. “For Max,” he said, and ugh.
Sink water was fine for Misha, but for Max he’d wait for the slower spigot at the fridge...were they even real?  

Not that Isaac was in a huge rush to find a boyfriend or anything, but it would have been nice to have someone bring him water when he was hungover. Or after they fucked, because it’d been awhile since Isaac had hooked up with anyone. Definitely not wanting to think about sex in front of his coach anymore, Isaac muttered something and made his escape to his room.

Then maybe he got back online and looked up a video of a guy with tattoos giving it to a pretty, sulky guy with dark hair and a sulky mouth. Who could blame him?

He was vaguely aware that the guy in the video looked way more like Laurent St. Savoy than Max Ashford, but whatever.  

                                                          *  *  *

Misha looked a lot more familiar when Isaac saw him the next day at the rink, dressed in his gear and skating the length of the ice while he waited for Isaac to warm-up. He was wearing a normal practice jersey (he saved the Bruins one for playing with Max, since it made the ex-Hab annoyed and, according to Misha, easier to steal the puck from) and the sound of his skates on the ice was oddly relaxing.

Hockey had always been Isaac’s safe place, which was why it sucked so hard when Creepy Jeff from Columbia showed up last season and tried to take that away from him. The reason he played so aggressively and yelled in goal was that he felt safe enough there to do it. He’d spent a lot of time in places where he didn’t feel safe, and no matter how hard assholes like Laurent St. Savoy tried, Isaac refused to entertain the idea that a hockey rink would ever be on that list.  

“I went to Asheville,” Isaac said, finally, after Misha had taken a few shots on goal. Isaac caught most of them in his glove, used his stick to save a few and tried one sprawling sort of scorpion save...thing...that totally didn’t work.

“I know.”

Scowling, Isaac got to his feet and snatched his water bottle from the netting on top of the goal. “What?”

“Max and I, we listened to the game, yes? On the ECHL network. The announcer mentioned something about seeing you in the crowd,” Misha paused. “He recognized your hair.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. The goddamn ECHL website had streaming audio coverage of games, Isaac had forgotten all about that. And his stupid hair did make him easy to spot, he supposed, though it kind of blew his mind that they’d mention it during game coverage. “What did they say?”

“That it appeared some of the Spitfires had shown up to watch the game, including the goalie.”

Isaac chewed on his lip ring. He didn’t want to seem like he was frivolously spending money on hotel rooms and trips out of town when Misha was letting him live rent-free at his house, but he didn’t necessarily want to mention Belsey since Misha wasn’t the GM’s biggest fan. “Yeah, some of us went up there.”

“Jack sent you,” Misha said, making it a statement and not a question. “Or paid for it, I’m sure.”

Isaac scowled and tossed his water bottle on top of the net again. “Do you know literally everything?”

“Yes. Put your mask on, you’ve had enough of a break.”

It was easier to play hockey with Max, who would act like a video game announcer or attempt to score on elaborate spin-o-rama moves whenever he happened to join them. Misha - even though he was always
Misha
and never “Coach” during these games -- could never quite turn off coach mode. Which was all right. Isaac knew he’d never played better hockey in his life, even when he was playing for fun.

Or playing for confession, which was what he appeared to be doing. And not for the first time, either.

Isaac raked his sweaty hair out of his face and pulled his mask down, got back into position and tapped the ice. Misha faked him out with a move he should have been too tall (and, even though Isaac valued his life and would never say this out loud, too old) to pull off and scored. Scowling, Isaac knocked the puck out of the net with attitude. “Damn it.”

“Pay attention,” Misha said, and tried almost the same move -- only he shot the puck a second earlier than last time and scored
again.

“You’re a defenseman,” Isaac groused, gracelessly knocking the puck back to Misha. “Stop acting like a cocky-ass forward.”

Misha
smirked
. “I learned that one from Max.”

“That figures.” Isaac tapped his stick again, Misha tried a similar move and this time Isaac caught the puck in his glove. He might as well tell Misha the whole truth since he’d admitted to going to Asheville. Belsey could handle being ratted out. Something told Isaac it wouldn’t be the first time. “You’re right about Belsey. He didn’t want me to tell you that he was financing our Trip of Great Grievances.”

Misha leaned on his stick, comfortable in his skates in a way only a veteran who spent more than a decade in the pro-leagues could be. “And did watching their defeat make you feel better about our loss, Isaac?”

Isaac pushed his mask up and straightened, avoiding Misha’s hard stare by grabbing his water bottle. “Maybe it did, a little,” he admitted. “The first game. They’re just...I’ve never seen anyone look so miserable playing hockey. They had terrible attitudes on the ice, on the bench, and they didn’t even shake hands or salute their crowd or anything after the game.”

“A team responds to adversity like they’ve been taught by their coach. Very often that lesson is taught not by words, but example.”

Misha must have been reading coaching books again. He had a lot of them at home and in his office at the arena. Isaac shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. All I know is, they got their asses handed to them and if they’d played that bad, we totally could have beaten them.”  

 “Are you mad?” Isaac asked, finally meeting Misha’s gaze. He hated how much the idea bothered him.

“I’m not pleased that members of my team went to watch another one fail, no,” said Misha, which made Isaac feel
awful.
Especially when he added, “I did not think that was the example I have set for you.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, of course Misha would find some way to think this was his fault. “It isn’t -- hey, just think of it this way. We went to support the Sea Storm. That’s better, isn’t it?” he asked hopefully.

Misha’s expression said quite clearly that it wasn’t. “Don’t bullshit me, Isaac.”

Misha never swore, so now Isaac felt even worse. “Okay, fine, yes, we went to watch them lose. And it was probably tacky.”

“Yes.” Misha tapped his stick on the ice. “But I admit, Max and I had a toast when the Storm won the last game.” He cleared his throat and scuffed his skate, like a rookie who just got in trouble. “So perhaps that was tacky as well.”

“Nah. They were dicks.” Isaac pulled his mask down. “They deserved to lose. But you’re right, that’s probably not the right attitude to have. I’m sorry.”

Misha gave him his usual inscrutable expression and said, “The next time you want to celebrate the Ravens losing a game, you will do it on the ice and it will be because we have beaten them.” He paused. “Or maybe in the kitchen, with vodka. But that’s all.”

“Okay,” said Isaac, and even though it was dumb, he felt better. Absolved, somehow. “I’ll pass that along to the guys. Would you have said anything if I hadn’t felt guilty and brought it up?”

“No.” Misha’s smile was strikingly similar to the one he gave Coach Ashford when he didn’t think anyone could see. A different kind of fond, maybe. “I knew I wouldn’t have to.”

Isaac couldn’t speak for a few seconds, choked by some unnamed emotion and wondering if Misha had any idea what that meant to him. He almost said something about how that proved Misha was setting a good example after all, but instead he went back into his crouch and tapped his stick on the ice to show he was ready to play.

It meant the same thing.