Page 76 of True North
“I can turn and stop, too,” Misha said, instead of asking why Curtis thought JT would care one way or the other whether he could skate. JT talked about Curtis a fair amount, and Misha gathered that Curtis was JT’s good friend in addition to being his trainer, so he wouldn’t be surprised if JT had said something to Curtis about the recent changes in their relationship. He would die of mortification if they talked about that, though.
“You’re golden, then. Ready for anything.” Curtis leaned forward and rested his arms on the half-wall separating them from the ice. “Alex! Watch your edges on those turns.”
Alex held up his gloved hand in a thumbs-up gesture. Misha watched as he circled back and went through the cones again. Misha didn’t notice him doing anything different this time, but Curtis nodded and sat back, seemingly satisfied.
Misha had never seen JT skate, and even though he didn’t really know what he was looking at, he was impressed by how fast JT was and how tight and quick his turns were. No surprise; JT was among the best hockey players in the world, and he worked out almost every day even during the offseason. Misha could see the joy of the game in him even while doing these drills, in every line of his body as he sliced neatly through the cones, in the big grin on his face as he and Alex trash-talked each other.
“He loves hockey,” Curtis said quietly. “Toronto hasn’t been kind to him.”
Misha turned to look at him. Curtis was watching him, arms folded over his chest as he leaned back in his seat. Misha raised his eyebrows, not sure what Curtis was getting at.
“His team got swept this year,” Curtis went on. “I don’t know if he told you. They didn’t win a single playoff game, and they were out after the first round. Everyone blamed him, including himself. It’s a heavy burden for one guy to shoulder.”
Misha considered this. JT talked a lot about his daily training but said almost nothing about his team or his career. Which was weird, now that Misha was thinking about it, but also not surprising, knowing JT.
“Maybe I can help him carry,” Misha said, and was pleased to see Curtis’s smile.
When the workout was finished, JT emerged from the locker room with damp hair, unaccompanied by Alex or Curtis. He raised his eyebrows at Misha. “Lunch?”
Misha hadn’t been serious about lunch, but he could see that JT was. They had never gone anywhere in public together aside from shifter events, not even to the grocery store. JT hadn’t offered, and Misha hadn’t asked, both of them with their various reasons for not wanting to be seen together.
“How do I look,” Misha said, joking but also not, because he expected there would be scrutiny. Everyone in this town knew who JT was.
JT looked him up and down, a more serious consideration than Misha thought his question deserved. “Amazing,” he said at last.
Misha was wearing a pair of athletic shorts that were most likely JT’s and a T-shirt JT had gotten for him with a screen print of a bear on a skateboard wearing sunglasses, because JT thought he was hilarious. He looked, if anything, like he should be at home power-washing the siding, or maybe digging in the planter beds for bait worms. But JT’s expression said he was entirely in earnest.
Misha didn’t have anything wittily self-deprecating to say. He tugged at the strap of JT’s bag, feeling a little shy, which was stupid, because it was only JT. “Sandwiches?”
“I know just the place,” JT said.
They went downtown and ate at a place that reminded Misha a lot of the all-night diner in Toronto where he would sometimes go to eat with the other cooks after they got off work. The vinyl booth seat stuck to his thighs, and the ketchup bottle had a dried maroon crust circling the cap. The sandwiches they ordered came with a heaping portion of fries, more potatoes than Misha had ever seen at one time, and he was Russian.
“Perfection,” JT said, beaming at his thick stack of meat with an afterthought of bread.
Beneath the table, Misha bumped his flip-flops against the toes of JT’s sneakers. They smiled at each other. Misha’s own sandwich was, he had to admit, pretty good.
This would be his life from now on, if he got very lucky. He would go to lunch with JT and do all the other normal things people did. They could go to the movies when JT was in town. When he wasn’t in town, Misha would—he would—well, he would do something or other. He would figure it out. He didn’t need to worry about that yet.
By the time they left the restaurant, the sun had come out, and the last of the rain clouds were a thin dark band on the eastern horizon, being pushed away by the breeze. Misha’s eyes chanced upon the clock in JT’s truck as he climbed into the passenger seat, and he immediately tried to forget the time he had seen. He didn’t want to think about how long it would be until Kirill’s interview or how long it would be after that until he learned his fate.
He caught JT glancing at his watch as they walked into the house and said, “Don’t tell me.”
JT gave him a sympathetic smile. “Okay. We won’t talk about it. Swim? Fish?” His smile turned wicked. “Fuck?”
“I think you know what I pick,” Misha said.
They didn’t make it past the mudroom. The floor wasn’t Misha’s preferred venue for sex, but he couldn’t complain too much with JT heavy on top of him, kissing his throat with one hand down Misha’s shorts, bringing him off with ruthless precision. He didn’t even have to return the favor; JT reared up while Misha was still catching his breath and jerked himself off, his gaze darting between Misha’s face and his softening dick. Then after that, they had to clean themselves up and tidy the kitchen from their hasty breakfast and water the houseplants, and Misha managed not to look at the clock once.
“Cards,” JT said, when every possible household chore was done, and they went out to the deck and sat at the picnic table, where Misha lost horribly three hands in a row, too distracted to even keep in mind the basic rules of the game.
As JT was dealing out the fourth hand, Misha’s phone rang.
He looked at JT. JT looked back at him.
“Well,” JT said. “You want to answer?”
Misha didn’t, but he took his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. His hand trembled with adrenaline. The white letters of Adeola’s name stood in sharp contrast against the black background.