Overtime by Unknown Page B

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