Power Play Read Online Free Page A

before you went on a date with him?” At Max’s glare, Kyle hastily said, “I’ll go check on your food,” and made a quick retreat.
    “I’m not—I don’t have a problem with that,” Misha said, so quietly that Max almost didn’t hear him. “If that is… what someone is.”
    “Gay? Well, that’s good. ’Cause I don’t have a problem with it at all.” Max looked up from his drink to meet Misha’s dark eyes, which were focused so intently on Max that it gave him a chill—and it wasn’t from some memory of the accident, half-buried in his consciousness.
    If anything it was a memory of hot night air and tequila, salt and ocean waves, fingers in his hair, words in a language he didn’t understand, and the feel of concrete beneath his knees.
    “I’m glad you don’t,” Max said. He shut every metaphorical door as quickly as he could and threw all the deadbolts, for good measure. He didn’t hate Misha and he never really had, but that didn’t mean he should want to blow him.
    There’s a setting between “hate” and “sucking his cock,” Max. Find it and dial it there. Quick.
    Max took a fortifying drink of his beer, and luckily Kyle returned with their food.
    “Sorry for the delay. The first order, the chef put bacon on them. I don’t know why you’d do that when they’re vegetarian nachos. Maybe it’s not even really bacon, but I wasn’t sure. So….” Kyle placed the plates of food on the table. “He’s high a lot. The chef.”
    “Why would you put bacon on nachos in the first place?” Misha asked.
    “Dude. We’re in America. We put bacon on everything. Thanks,” Max said to Kyle. He thought about pointing out they weren’t on a date, but decided maybe to let it go.
    They were there to talk about the team. Which they did as they ate. They went over the roster that was slowly taking shape.
    As usual Max hesitated when he got to Drake’s name. “This kid has an attitude problem the size of… Russia. Russia’s big, isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” Misha said. “Very.”
    “I know he’s got a contract, but maybe we should trade him for someone. I think the other players are scared of him.”
    Misha considered that. Max had insisted Misha try a fried mozzarella stick, but he was eating it with a knife and a fork—proving that he was not, in fact, a normal person. “Maybe that is a good thing. Hmm? He could keep them in line.”
    “He almost has as many penalty minutes as our enforcer,” Max reminded him.
    Misha arched an eyebrow—because of course he could do that. “Maybe we should tell Huxley to get in more fights.”
    “That’s not how you eat mozzarella sticks,” Max groused, slouching in his chair like an ill-tempered teenager. “Fine. So we’re keeping Drake?” Max put his head on the table and groaned. “He has a lip piercing.”
    “What was that? I can’t hear you. Did you say he… has a hip replacement? He’s so young.”
    Max lifted his head. Misha was calmly eating his dissected mozzarella stick and watching him with something that Max was sure was amusement. “You have got to be kidding me.”
    Misha winked at him. Max’s world tipped upside down and flipped sideways. And then, for no reason, he noticed that Misha wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He wished he hadn’t noticed, but he had. He was also momentarily fascinated by Misha’s long, slender fingers, wrapped around his fork.
    Holy shit. I think I kind of do want to blow him.
    “I think we should keep Drake,” Misha said, as if Max weren’t thinking about administering blowjobs beneath the table. “I think he should be captain.”
    “I think you’re crazy.” Max sat up and firmly told himself not to think about anything but hockey. “Goalies are never the captain.”
    Misha shrugged. He did that very elegantly. It looked very European. Were Russians European? Max was fucking terrible at geography. “Maybe they should be. And sometimes I have seen it. Roberto Luongo, when he played for the