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“Dude, get up! You slept through your alarm again. We’ve gotta leave for practice in five minutes.”
Mike groaned miserably from his cocoon of rumpled covers. “Fuck that,” he mumbled into his pillow. “Go ’way, Corey.”
“I’m just trying to help you, man. You remember what Cap said was going to happen next time you were late for practice.”
Mike definitely remembered. He had been dangling from Ilya’s right hand at the time, having been caught up by the back of his jersey and hauled to his tiptoes for a brief but intense scolding about time management and his responsibility to the team. It culminated, of course, in a not-at-all-subtle warning that if it happened again, Mike would spend the entire practice with a burning ass to go with his hangover.
Mike cringed at both the memory and the certainty it hadn’t been an idle threat. “Fuuuuck,” he whined. “Tell him I’m sick, then.”
“You think he’s gonna buy that? He’s not an idiot, Mike. And I love you, man, but I’m not in the mood to get my ass busted for lying.”
“Fine, shit, fine. I’ll get up. Give me ten minutes.”
“We leave in three.”
Mike managed to drag his catastrophically hungover self out of bed, use the bathroom, brush his teeth, and pull on sweats within the ridiculously narrow time window. As he threw himself into the back of his roommate’s car and sprawled out flat, he groaned, “If you really wanted to help, why did you wait until I only had five minutes?”
From the front seat, Corey and Jack exchanged amused looks. “What’s the fun in that?” Jack asked.
“You’re both assholes,” Mike sulked. “And how are you not feeling like shit?”
“We didn’t put away half a bottle of vodka each, for one thing,” Corey said.
“Yeah, we stuck to beer like normal people,” Jack added. “What is it with you and vodka anyway, Mikey?”
“He thinks it’s gonna score him some favoritism points with Captain Russia. Sorry to tell ya, Mike, he only drinks the good stuff. He’d be personally offended by that bottom-shelf swill you were guzzling last night.”
“Stop,” MIke moaned, pressing his face into the leather seat beneath him. “I am begging you both to stop talking about vodka right now, or I will vomit all over this car.”
They arrived at the practice rink with five minutes to spare, and Mike was feeling pretty good about that. He could change fast, drag ass to the ice, and hopefully keep a low enough profile to avoid undue attention until he could escape back to the comfort of his bed.
Of course, luck was rarely on Michael Miller’s side. The moment the three of them entered the locker room, the loud, commanding voice of their captain rang out across the room. “Ah, my rookies! Nice of you to join us. You have three minutes to change and be on ice or we start without you and you will make up for lateness with bag skates after.”
Corey and Jack made a beeline for their respective stalls, already flinging clothes aside. Mike followed with slightly less gusto. Before he could even start changing, a large hand gripped his chin firmly and angled it up. Ilya’s eyes were sharp and assessing.
“Why do you look like shit, Michael Miller?”
Well fuck.
“I mean, that’s kinda harsh, Cap. We can’t all walk around looking like we just stepped out of the pages of Hockey’s Hottest Heroes.” (Can I interest you in a weak joke, Captain Rozanov? Maybe with a side of flattery? Heh heh … heh…)
“Don’t bullshit me,” Ilya snapped, shaking Mike’s chin a little. “Let me see your eyes.”
“Caaaap,” Mike whined, but he dragged his gaze up to meet Ilya’s.
“How much did you have to drink last night?”
“Huh? None, nothing, what?”
“Rookies!” Ilya snapped as Corey and Jack tried to slip by undetected, still adjusting their gear. He hadn’t even looked away from Mike. “To me.”
Mike squirmed against the hand gripping his chin, but was rewarded with another shake. From his peripheral vision, he could see his friends exchanging a worried glance at the order before they drew closer carefully, reluctance in every step.
“I’m going to ask this one time and if you even think about lying to me, you will go into back office and bring me the paddle, clear?”
“Yes, Cap,” they chorused.
“Did you all go out drinking last night? I know this one did, but I want to know how many spankings I need to give out before we start practice.”
Mike knew they were about to spill their guts. He also knew that their outing had been his idea, that he’d had to talk them into it, and that if they hadn’t woken him up when they had this morning, he would’ve been toast. Well, even more so. Toastier toast.
So as Corey took in breath to start speaking, Mike drowned him out with a loud, bold, big fat lie. “It was just me this time, Cap. I tried to talk these assholes into coming with me but they were all like ‘we have early practice’ and ‘Cap would kill us.’ They stayed home.”
He could feel the air shift as Ilya looked over at the other two. Mike, chin still trapped, couldn’t see their expressions but he hoped to God they were going to back him up. A lie on top of the drinking? He didn’t think he could deal with that even without this mind-bending hangover.
“Is this true, boys?” Ilya asked, his tone carefully neutral.
Mike closed his eyes and waited for his fate to be sealed.
“Yeah, Cap,” Jack said. “But he wasn’t even gone long and he didn’t drink that much and–”
“Enough,” Ilya interrupted. “Go get on the ice and warm up. Tell Marley to run drills until I’m done here.”
Corey and Jack might as well have evaporated on the spot.
Ilya finally let go of Mike’s chin, which was a relief. One that was instantly doused by his next words: “Stand up and drop those pants. I have important review lesson to go over with you.”
“Ilyaaaa,” Mike whined helplessly. He was already so miserable, couldn’t Cap have some mercy?
“Tsk, who am I to you right now?”
Mike just barely stopped his traitorous eyes from rolling of their own accord, which would have done nothing to improve his current situation. “Captain, sir, your highness, your honor, god among men…”
“Enough stalling. We have practice to do and I will not make them wait longer because you think now is time to be funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny, I’m trying to save my ass.”
“Only thing you can save your ass from now is second spanking after practice. And only if you do what I told you in next three seconds. One.”
“Ilya, no…”
“Two.”
“I meant Cap, Please, can we…”
“Thr–”
Mike sprang from the bench, dropped his pants, and threw himself over it in an impressively swift maneuver for someone who felt minutes away from death.
“Smart choice, Rookie,” Ilya said, resting a hand against Mike’s back. “Now listen to me, because this is last time we have this conversation with just my hand, do you understand?”
At Mike’s strained “yes sir,” Ilya continued. “What is the rule about rookies and alcohol?”
“No drinking except at team events?”
“Team events, with supervision, and two-drink limit always. How many did you have last night, Michael?”
“I don’t know, two?”
Ilya’s palm caught his lower right cheek with a bright, sharp crack of pain that made Mike jerk forward with a little cry. “Try again,” Ilya suggested.
“Four. Maybe five. I don’t remember, Ilya, please.”
Another searing swat to the same spot. “Who?”
“Cap! Captain!”
“Let’s say five. Five drinks. Vodka?”
“Yes sir.”
“Five shitty American vodka drinks might seem like enough punishment. But no, this is not where your bad judgment ends. You show up to practice looking like warm death. Barely in time to change and get on ice. Not just hung over, clearly still drunk. Almost dragging your friends down with you. Wasting everyone’s time.”
Harsh smacks accompanied Ilya's scolding, slow and measured but doing a remarkably effective job at building up the stinging heat in Mike’s backside and upper thighs.
“Be still,” Ilya snapped when Mike began shifting his hips in a vain attempt to dodge. The pace of the swats picked up at the same time. “You don’t want spanking, you start making smart choices. You think before you act. You obey rules set by those who outrank you. Coaches, doctors – your captain. If you do not do these things, we will be having many more conversations like this. Is this what you want, Michael?”
“N-no! No, Cap, ow!”
Mike’s breath had begun to hitch, and he could feel tears of pain and frustration building behind his eyes. In his time under Ilya Rozanov’s captaincy, Mike had been on the receiving end of physical correction more than a few times. He’d never made it through one of these sessions without crying, and he sure didn’t expect it to happen this time, when he was already so physically and emotionally spent.
So it didn’t come as a surprise when, just moments later, he choked out a sob, tears spilling over and spattering the bench he was bent over. Ilya, always one to end things on his terms, delivered a handful of extra-mean slaps, then allowed the silence of the locker room to settle over them both. It was broken only by Mike’s cries, soft but hoarse, and his gasping breaths as he tried to pull himself together.
After a few moments, Ilya bent to pull Mike’s pants back up to cover him, rolling his eyes when the rookie fussed a bit and shot him a wounded look.
Then Ilya did what he always did after disciplining one of the younger ones—and he usually did it with a bit of trepidation, not knowing how the gesture would be received. With Mikey, he knew. So when he opened his arms and the kid crashed into him hard enough to take Ilya’s breath away, he was pleased but not surprised. He tightened his arms around the rookie, rubbing his back soothingly with the same hand that had just been so punishing. And he might have even gently rocked him a bit, from side to side, as he pressed his lips against Mike’s untamed hair. But only he and Mike needed to know about that part.
They stood like that for a long time—Ilya never rushed this part—before Mike pulled back and pulled the bottom of his tee shirt up to wipe his teary, snotty face.
“Better?” Ilya asked, grimacing a little.
Mike gave him an incredulous look.
“Okay, is fair,” Ilya acknowledged. “So now you have sore ass to go with headache and upset stomach. But we are good, Michael. You will remember this lesson so I won’t have to teach it again, yes?”
“Oh god yes,” Mike said so quickly it made Ilya chuckle. "You made your point loud and clear." He underscored the point by reaching back to rub his miserably smarting bottom.
“Good,” Ilya said, running a hand affectionately through the rookie’s hair. “Now clean your face and get changed. You have made us both late for practice.”
Mike objected to the phrasing with a snort of disbelief, but Ilya just smirked at him as he headed out to the ice and his waiting team.