Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
MICAH
Press took for-fucking-ever. The locker room was silent by the time I got in, the stench of cologne, spray-on deodorant, and sweat still lingering in the air.
It was better than the fresh hell that came from right after the game, which meant everyone’s equipment had been picked up, and that was something.
I could breathe a little easier, and I’d kept far enough away from Ben’s guide dog that it didn’t trigger an allergy attack. I’d probably pop a Benadryl tonight, but that was for other reasons. Mostly that I was out of Xanax, and my doctor was trying to wean me off my current sleeping pill.
With a breath, I found my phone and checked my messages. There were no new ones from Hunter, but I had one from Ford waiting, sent nearly forty-five minutes ago.
Ford: I’m nearby if you want a ride.
He probably wasn’t anymore, but he would come back if I asked him to. Not that I was going to ask him to drive his ass all the way back to Salem for me. He was more than halfway home by now. He had to be.
Me: I’ve got won, but thanks, bud. I don’t have a game Sunday or Monday. Hang out?
I let the phone drop on the bench just before it buzzed again, but I didn’t bother picking it up. A shower sounded like a dream right now, and since there were no other large, hairy asses bumping around in there, I could take my time.
I could get into all the cracks.
I could—
“Micah!”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. There was nothing I hated more than someone sitting in a room not announcing their fucking presence. But there was also a good chance I’d been too in my own thoughts to hear the door open.
“Uh…”
“Is Vanya.”
I almost groaned, but I managed to hold it in.
I had gotten my hopes up that he wasn’t here tonight.
That I could get a small reprieve from constantly thinking about him and reliving the moment we’d shared in Alexio’s car.
And with Ben up my ass, and the press up my ass, and Hunter once again in my fucking texts like he was going to make another bullshit move, I was pretty sure him being here now would be a little too much for me to handle.
But I knew myself, and there wasn’t a chance I was going to tell him to leave.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to scare you. I say your name when I walked in, but you seemed…” He hesitated, and I wasn’t sure if it was the look on my face or if he was searching for a word in English. “Distracted. Everything okay?”
“I’m fine. I got out of the presser, and now I need a shower.” I started toward the door and was hoping that was his sign to fuck off, but in very Vanya style, he followed me.
“Pressers are the worst. Always talking so fast, one million questions, don’t have time to answer. Then they get angry at me because I just smile and give thumbs-up. My sister got me a tutor, you know? This year? For English…”
“Don’t you Europeans all get, like, English lessons as babies or something?” I stripped off my shirt and pants, then loosened the jock belt before sliding it off. I wondered if Vanya was watching the show.
I wasn’t sure I should be doing this. He wanted me. He was making it obvious every chance he got. This felt like a terrible, cruel tease. But he wasn’t going to leave, and I wasn’t going to stew in my own juices, so he could enjoy my nice, firm, lily-white ass.
“Such English supremacy,” he said, padding after me as I stepped under one of the showerheads and felt along the wall for the knob. I hissed when it came out cold, but it warmed up quickly. God bless the NHL money that helped pay for all this.
“That’s a big word for you, English Tutor,” I said as my fingers grazed the shelf for all my supplies.
He laughed. “Yes. I watch a lot of TV.”
Of course he did.
Grabbing the soap, I lathered up and groaned when my fingers made contact with the back of my neck.
Everything was so fucking tense, and it had nothing to do with stopping the puck with my body.
I kneaded my muscles for a moment, and then I heard Vanya sigh before I heard the sound of rubber soles slapping on wet tile.
“Here. I can help.”
“What the—dude, we are not going to do this here—” I started, but Vanya shoved my hands down and immediately began to dig his annoyingly strong fingers into my muscles. “Oh shit. Oh my god, Vanya. That feels amazing.”
“I know,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice. “Am very good. I know is stereotype that Russians are good at all things, but this is not one. I am very good at massage.”
“Quit your job and be my personal masseur.”
He snorted and leaned in, rubbing his nose over my shoulder before pulling back. “Maybe, if you can match my salary.”
“Fuck off.” I leaned forward, pressing my forehead to the cool tiles, and took in a deep breath. “I know what you make. All you NHL fuckers make so much more than us.”
He was quiet for a second. “Yes, I know. It’s very unfair.”
God, did he have to be so agreeable all the damn time? It was so annoying, especially on nights I would have loved to pick a fight. He should hate me right now for this whole push-pull thing I knew I was doing.
But he had his hands on me, and it felt good, and he wasn’t asking for more. I didn’t know why that meant everything, but it did.
I bit back another groan of pleasure as one of the knots in my shoulder loosened. “So, ah, why does your English suck so much?”
He hummed. “I take French at school. I learn a little English when I was young, but our teacher…she wasn’t very good.
I struggle, and she was not very patient.
Then I join the KHL and teammate there—his parents from Croatia, but he growing up in Montreal, so he start teaching me French.
When I’m drafted to Boston, I felt…a lot of panic. ”
I snorted. “Yeah, I bet. They don’t speak a lot of Russian or French around here.”
“Mm, no, but there is some Russian neighborhoods. Restaurants, bakeries,” he said softly.
His fingers dug in deeper, and I kind of wanted to cry because goddamn, not even the trainer made me feel this good.
Things inside my body begin to unknot, which was dangerous because the knots were keeping me from falling apart.
He stepped in closer, and I could feel the warmth in him, and fuck me, but I wanted to feel him pressed against me again. I wanted to lose myself in him once more. I wanted him to wrap his calloused, gorgeous hand around my dick and force a fucking orgasm right out of my body.
But I wasn’t brave enough to ask for that. Not now. Not tonight.
“Vanya,” I murmured.
“Mm.”
“I, uh…I need to, um…to get washed up.”
He pulled away agonizingly slowly, a drag of his fingers that made me want to chase the touch. I swallowed heavily, then grazed a touch downward to ensure that however thick my cock had gotten, it wasn’t obvious.
Luckily, it was still hanging heavily between my legs. But I couldn’t help wondering about his.
Was he hard now? Was he going to jerk off tonight? The thought of him touching himself while thinking of me was almost too much, and I had to turn away in order to get clean.
Lathering soap in my hands, I scrubbed my hair, then turned my face out of the water spray. “So, not to be rude, but what are you doing here?”
“Helping you shower,” he said absently.
Oh my god, this fucking guy. “No. Like, why are you in Salem tonight?”
“Oh! I watch game. Very good! Shutout! I haven’t done that in a long time.”
He was being modest. Not that I was going to say that and give myself away and admit that I’d been listening to all his games. “Whatever. It was all luck.”
“Mm, no. Was very good skills. You have to teach me to listen better when we train.”
“Is that why you’re here? For training?”
“No. I like watching PPHL games. I visit Boden too, watch him win. He’s very good winger. Very vicious.”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t help but smile. “He was born with hockey in his blood. I’m Canadian, so I was born with hockey, spite, anxiety, and a need to prove my mother wrong.” Shit. I was giving away too fucking much. I held my breath, waiting for Vanya to ask about her, but he didn’t.
“In Russia, you play hockey. Maybe figure skating. Fish…” He hummed as he thought. “A lot of things, but is very different from Canada. Very different from Boston. No Montreal bagels here,” he lamented.
I burst into laughter as I turned the shower off. I hated that he made his presence so easy, but I also never wanted him to stop being himself. “Hand me a towel?”
He shuffled around, and then a moment later, the soft towel hit my hand, and I grabbed my things, tracing a touch along the wall as I made my way back to my stall. He followed, the soft padding of his feet an echo of mine, and I heard the bench across from me creak from his weight.
He was a bigger guy—larger than most goalies, but just as flexible. I would never forget the way his body moved beneath me while we were in Alexio’s car. That was something I would take with me for the rest of my life.
Everything about him was so big, so overwhelming. So intense.
God, why was he still here?
“So, like, did you need something from me?”
“No. Just want to say hi. Show off my new English skills. I learned some slang today,” he said. He was quiet for a beat, then said, “Six-seven.”
“Oh my god, I will fucking kill you.”
He burst into laughter. “No, no. I’m only joking. My tutor show me joking videos on Instagram.”
Pulling my shirt over my head, I tried to order my hair, then touched my phone when I realized I had messages on there waiting for me, but I didn’t know where my earbuds were, and I didn’t want to play them in front of Vanya.
“Well, I’m impressed.”
“You just saying that because you want me to leave.”
I swallowed. “No. I…the company was nice. Thanks.”
“Thanks? Was difficult to say?”