Save of the Game

by Avon Gale

  “Yeah,” Ethan said. “Zoe brought over all the hockey-camp stuff. Did you know kids had to pay to attend that?”

  “I just assumed,” Riley said, leaning in to look at the notepad. “But why are you taking so many notes?”

  “Oh.” Ethan shrugged. “I have to look up a lot of these words. Like, I know what they mean, but not in the context of business shit. Like foundation and 501c3 and nonprofit—which I thought meant for free but it doesn’t. I still don’t really get that. And then I gotta look up some of the words in the definitions of those words and so on.” He gave Riley a crooked grin. “I might be able to give Becker a run for his money on Trivia Crack, though, if there’s a category for big words and money stuff.”

  Riley took Ethan’s face in his hands and kissed him, slow and hot. “This is what I meant, Ethan. When I said that if something matters to you, you find a way to do it.”

  “Riley.” Ethan was embarrassed, but he smiled against Riley’s mouth and kissed him back with enthusiasm. Kissing was much better than studying. “Thanks. But mostly I’m just starting to think your sister must be a genius. Ugh. Business is hard.”

  “Does this note say local boxing rink? That’s not for the camp. Is it?” Riley arched his eyebrows. “It’s a hockey camp run by an enforcer. Maybe that’s part of the curriculum.”

  “Huh? Oh, no. That’s for me.” Ethan shrugged. “I need to keep in shape if I’m not playing hockey. And maybe I could make some money, ’cause I’ll need a part-time job. And yeah. I know we agreed you’d cover living expenses and shit, and I’m fine with that. I promise. But I gotta support my vices. You know? And I… I have to do something, Riley. Like, something to contribute. And I said I’d give my stipend from the grant thing back to the camp, because it’s not like it’s that much, but at least it’s something.”

  “You are contributing something,” Riley said and kissed him again. “But I get it.”

  Ethan was distracted by the kissing. He didn’t really mind, but he should probably finish all the financial stuff and put it away first. “You’re still showing up to help at it, and I’m not paying you anything.”

  “I figured that was part of the deal. And no problem. I’m gonna take a shower,” Riley said, straightening. He’d been running, so he was sweaty and his hair was pushed back off his face. Ethan was suddenly looking forward to seeing Riley in a suit at Zoe’s wedding. A fancy one. Maybe with a vest.

  “Okay,” Ethan went back to his notes and forced himself to stay put and not have a cigarette. He was going to have to stop smoking, because he didn’t want any kids to see him do it, think it was cool, and then get addicted. He’d hate himself forever if that happened.

  “Hey, Ethan?” Riley asked, quietly, from the doorway to the bedroom.

  “Yeah?”

  Riley looked momentarily uncertain, like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what or how to say it. Instead he said, “Let me know if you need anything, okay?” and went into the bedroom.

  Ethan stared at the budget paperwork again and the simple answer to all his problems crashed into him like a freight train headed straight for the Obviousville Bridge.

  There was one thing Ethan needed to make the hockey camp what he wanted it to be. Money. And probably someone to deal with the money, so Ethan could focus on what he was really good at and concentrate on the kids and making a difference through hockey instead of paperwork and grants.

  As it happened he knew someone with a lot of money. And that someone’s sister was pretty good at math and accounting.

  Riley would give Ethan the money he needed. Ethan was sure of it. He wasn’t as sure about Madison. Maybe she wouldn’t want the task of running a hockey foundation or whatever a 501c3 was, but she’d definitely be his accountant. He was sure of it. She was turning into a pretty big hockey fan—and she knew what a Corsi statistic was and how to calculate it for every single person in the ECHL. Madison was sort of terrifying, but in a good way. Ethan had never met anyone that smart, and he knew she’d take good care of the hockey camp and probably have some ideas about how to manage the finances.

  Everything Ethan wanted, he could have. But he’d have to ask Riley for money, and that was the one thing he didn’t know if he could do. It wasn’t money for a pizza or bringing his family down for a visit or even paying their living expenses for a year or two for Ethan to work with kids. It was serious money, an investment. Asking for that would be the single most vulnerable thing Ethan had ever done.

  Riley would have to believe in Ethan’s ideas and his vision for the camp—enough to give him what might be millions of dollars to see it come to life. And if Riley didn’t think he could do that, it would break Ethan’s heart. And if Riley did believe in him and did give him the money, would it make shit weird between them? What if they broke up?

  Ethan broke out in a cold sweat. If they split and Riley took his funding away, it would leave Ethan with nothing. No boyfriend he loved, no hockey camp. Holy shit. Ethan would be devastated. Worse than when his dad left. Worse than anything.

  Riley wouldn’t do that. Even if something happened with the two of us, if he gave me his word, he’d stand by it. That’s what he does. That’s who he is.

  If he trusted Riley that meant what he said—that Ethan could do anything he wanted if he put his mind to it—and trusted that what they had together was the real thing, then Ethan could do this. All he had to do was ask.

  Ethan took a deep breath, got up, and went into the bedroom. By then Riley was out of the shower and dressed in a pair of jeans and no shirt. He was shaving.

  Ethan had let his scruff grow after they won the championship, but he shaved it because Zoe told him he looked more like a hooligan than usual. He was also giving Riley beard burn.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Riley said, smoothly dragging the razor down his face. Riley’s beard had made him look a bit like a mountain man. Or maybe an indie-band front man. It would be hard to choose which was more appropriate.

  “Can I—do you have a minute?”

  “Really?” Riley gave him a weird look in the mirror. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Oh. Right. No. I… look. It feels weird to have this conversation with you shaving. So could you, um… finish that, put on a shirt, and come into the living room?” Ethan held up his hand. “I’m going to smoke, but I haven’t in six hours or something. And I really need to. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Riley said, looking a little concerned. “Is everything all right?”

  This is only the scariest thing I’ve ever done and the most vulnerable I’ve ever been. But yeah. Everything’s peachy. “Yeah,” Ethan said. “I think so.”

  Ethan smoked two cigarettes, and Riley met him in the living room looking hot, comfortable, and healthy. He stretched out on the floor with his stupid coconut water beside him. Ethan loved him so much. He really did. And he was terrified. But somehow, deep down, he knew it was going to be okay.

  “You look like you’re about to faint,” Riley said. “I know you like watching me stretch, but try and control yourself, Kennedy.”

  Ethan snorted. Then got light-headed and needed to breathe. His hands shook—partly from the rush of nicotine and partly nerves. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “When you say you’re rich, how rich are you?” Ethan winced. Maybe he should have practiced first. “God. Sorry. I just—this is so tacky. My mom would yell at me if she heard me right now—”

  “My parents are fourth on the list of United States billionaires,” Riley interrupted without a change of inflection. “You could have just googled that, dude.”

  Ethan scowled. But holy fuck. Billionaires? He wasn’t sure what Riley’s parents did exactly, but it was something about oil and financial planning and banks. Ethan didn’t understand it. “Not your parents, moron. You.”

  “Well, I mean… unless they disinherit me, that’s about the same.”

  “But if—Riley, if I—could you—�
�� Ethan shook his head and told himself to stop being a pussy and go for it. Then he berated himself for using misogynistic language and said, “If I asked you to fund my hockey camp so I could get more kids in and have it not cost so much for everyone, could you do it? Like, do you have enough money to do that?”

  Riley stared at him, his face expressionless, and for a moment Ethan thought he really would faint. But then Riley smiled—bright and so happy—like Ethan had just given him millions of dollars instead of asked for it. “Yes. I’d love to.”

  “It might be a lot, though. Like, millions? I don’t know. And I’ll get someone who’s good at money stuff to manage it. I was thinking maybe your sister if she wanted? But, um… if you wanted me to pay you back that… that’ll probably never happen. But—”

  “Ethan,” Riley said, unfolding from his strange contortions on the floor. “I don’t want the money back. And yes. It’s fine if it’s millions.” He was still smiling. “And I bet Madison would love it. That’s a great idea.”

  “Why do you look so happy about giving me money?” Ethan grumbled as Riley walked him toward the wall. Ethan realized he was shaking like a goddamn leaf. He hoped Riley knew how badly Ethan wanted to be tied up and fucked hard right about then.

  Somehow he didn’t think he’d have to ask for that, though.

  “That’s not why I’m happy. I mean, I’m glad I can help, and it’s a great cause. But mostly I’m just happy that you asked me. I know what it means that you feel like you can.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” Ethan muttered. Riley leaned in and kissed him so intensely he would have fallen over if not for the convenient wall at his back. Breathless, Ethan said, “So what’s it mean?”

  “It means, problem solved,” said Riley with a suggestive push of his hips and a bright, happy laugh.

  Ethan’s breath caught, but he leaned in and bit his infuriating boyfriend on the side of the neck. “In your dreams, Hunter,” he said. “In your dreams.”

  Exclusive Excerpt

  Power Play

  A Scoring Chances Novel

  Chapter One

  DRESSED IN a suit and brimming with optimism, Max Ashford headed into the Bon Secours Wellness Arena for his first day as the new assistant coach of the Spartanburg Spitfires.

  Well, maybe not brimming. Maybe just simmering.

  From what little French he’d picked up playing professional hockey for the Montreal Canadiens—mainly insults of people’s family members and the many and varied words for cocksucking—Max knew that Bon Secours meant “good help.”

  Maybe it was a good omen. That’d be nice. He was looking forward to a little good help, and to a new beginning after an injury five years earlier abruptly ended his professional playing career. Being the assistant coach of the worst team in the ECHL wasn’t playing in the Stanley Cup Playoffs, but it was a start.

  Max knew hockey inside and out, and even though his prior coaching experience was limited to an assistant position for his old college team in Duluth, he was determined to find success behind the bench. Hopefully whoever the new head coach for the Spitfires was—they were still interviewing when they hired Max—wouldn’t mind Max’s inexperience too much.

  One day Max Ashford was going to be back in the majors, behind the bench instead of on it, maybe. But Max was nothing if not determined. He’d come to terms with the abrupt end of his playing career because there was nothing else to do unless he wanted to wallow in disappointment for the rest of his life. He did a little of that at first because it was hard not to. Before the accident he was a young, talented player signed to a multiyear contract with endorsement deals, a new house in the suburbs of Montreal, and a gorgeous fiancée.

  But his injury rendered the deals null and void, the house was sold in a short sale and the fiancée was long gone. All Max had left was a perfectly bland apartment with too many boxes he’d yet to unpack, a new suit that was too hot in the South Carolina sun, and a brand-new Jeep Wrangler he’d bought used and sort of regretted.

  The Bon Secours Arena was quiet when Max made his way to the offices. He was greeted by a smiling Jack Belsey, the owner and general manager of the Spartanburg Spitfires. Belsey was in his late fifties, and looked like an ex-football player. He had broad shoulders and a nose that might have been broken a time or two, and he was dressed in a suit that cost more than Max would make in three months and was wearing an honest-to-God diamond pinky ring.

  Max hadn’t liked Belsey when they met during Max’s interview, but he hadn’t disliked him either. He just reminded Max of the kind of guy who tried to sell you a car. Aggressively. Even if you weren’t shopping for one.

  “Max Ashford.” Belsey gave him a smile like he’d just stolen money out of Max’s wallet, and held out a hand. “How are you? We’ve been looking forward to your arrival.” He kept smiling, like he had not only stolen money out of Max’s wallet, he’d invested it in strippers and porn and was going to make millions and not share any of the profits.

  “Thanks,” Max said. He gave Belsey the same smile he gave reporters when they asked him if he missed playing hockey after his forced early retirement. “I’m glad to be here.” That much was true, at least. He’d liked being back in Duluth, but at twenty-nine, it was amazing how much older he felt than the college kids on the team. It was hard to believe he’d ever been that young.

  “WE SURE are excited about this season,” Belsey said, eyes gleaming. He seemed to be fairly vibrating with glee, which was suspicious. The Spitfires’ past record did not inspire anything close to glee. “I just know that the changes we’ve made are going to lead to some exciting hockey.”

  “I’m hoping you’ll see a lot of improvement on the ice,” Max said, wondering if he should be worried or relieved that his boss said exciting hockey, instead of good hockey.

  “It all starts behind the bench.” Belsey’s grin widened. It was beginning to make Max uncomfortable, as was the fact that Belsey hadn’t let go of his hand. “Now, come on. I want you to meet the head coach, and then we’ll let you two get things sorted out.”

  That should have been Max’s first clue that Belsey was up to something, but Max could not have expected what he would see when Belsey opened the door to the coach’s office.

  “Max, I’d like you to meet the head coach of the Spartanburg Spitfires,” Belsey said, but Max could barely hear him over the ringing in his ears. He remembered the way the world had spun around, how the ice felt when he hit it, the sound of his skull cracking against the edge of a hockey stick, the taste of blood in his mouth, and the sound of silence where mere moments before there’d been the roar of a crowd.

  Even the most diehard hockey fan would be hard-pressed to recall the name of the man standing in the office—a tall figure with fair hair and startlingly dark eyes. But Max would never forget it for as long as he lived. Five years before, during a heated rivalry game that would decide which team went on to play for the Stanley Cup, that man threw the hit that had sent Max to the ice, where his head slammed hard on the side of a stick. It was a freak accident and not intentional, but it was enough to knock him out cold and send him out of the game on a stretcher. The resulting concussion wasn’t severe, but the injury he sustained to his peripheral vision was enough to keep him off the ice for good.

  “We’ve met,” said Max curtly as he stepped forward to shake Misha Samarin’s hand.

  More from Avon Gale

  A Scoring Chances Novel

  Drafted to play for the Jacksonville Sea Storm, an NHL affiliate, twenty-year-old Lane Courtnall’s future looks bright, apart from the awkwardness he feels as a gay man playing on a minor league hockey team. He’s put his foot in his mouth a few times and alienated his teammates. Then, during a rivalry game, Lane throws off his gloves against Jared Shore, enforcer for the Savannah Renegades. It’s a strange way to begin a relationship.

  Jared’s been playing minor league hockey for most of his career. He’s bisexual and doesn’t care if anyone knows. But he’s
determined to avoid another love affair after the last one left him devastated. Out of nowhere a one-nighter with rookie Lane Courtnall gives him second thoughts. Lane reminds Jared why he loves the game and why love might be worth the risk. In turn, Jared hopes to show Lane how to be comfortable with himself on and off the ice. But they’re at different points in their careers, and both men will have to decide what they value most.

  Avery Hextall, a junior architect at a prestigious firm, is thrilled when his design is chosen for a new performing-arts center—even if it means working closely with his insufferably uptight project manager, Malin Lacroix. When a chance encounter in the boss’s office proves that Lacroix is anything but cold, Avery is determined to learn more about the real man beneath the aloof veneer.

  Despite their growing attraction and their increasingly kinky encounters, the enigmatic Malin remains as emotionally distant as ever. Worse, Avery’s friends are convinced Malin thinks of Avery as a dirty secret and nothing more—a secret that might destroy both of their careers.

  But the real secret is a single moment in time that haunts Malin and keeps him from committing to the life he wants with Avery. In order to move on, Avery must help Malin come to terms with the tragedy in his past before they can work on building a future together.

  Readers love Breakaway by Avon Gale

  “…a humorous and insightful, character-driven, sports contemporary, bisexual M/M romance.”

  —Unquietly Me

  “I’d seriously give this a 7 of 5 stars if I could… it was really, really amazing.”

  —The Blogger Girls

  “…it was a pleasure to read about a relationship that didn’t depend on angst, and felt true to life.”

  —Prism Book Alliance