Power Play

by Avon Gale

  Table of Contents

  Power Play

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

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  Chapter One

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  By Avon Gale

  Power Play

  By Avon Gale

  A Scoring Chances Novel

  A freak accident during the Stanley Cup Playoffs put an end to Max Ashford’s hockey career. Despite everything, Max gets back into the game he loves—only this time, behind the bench as an assistant coach of the Spartanburg Spitfires, the worst team in the entire league. But nothing prepares him for the shock when he learns the new head coach is Misha Samarin, the man who caused Max’s accident.

  After spending years guilt ridden for his part in Max’s accident, Russian native Misha Samarin has no idea what to do when he’s confronted with Max’s presence. Max’s optimism plays havoc with Misha’s equilibrium—as does the fierce attraction that springs up between them.

  Not only must they navigate Misha’s remorse and a past he’s spent a lifetime trying to forget, but also a sleazy GM who is determined to use their history as a marketing hook. But when an unwelcome visitor targets a player, Misha revisits his darkest days, and that might cost him and Max the beginning they’ve worked so hard to build.

  For everyone who appreciates a good rivalry. Go Bruins!

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank all y’all who have so kindly taken the time out of your lives to spend time with my characters. Thank you so much!

  Author’s Note

  The structure of minor-league professional hockey in the States is a bit confusing and is constantly changing as teams open, fold, and relocate. I thought it might be a good idea to provide a quick-and-dirty rundown, at least as it pertains to the Scoring Chances series and the characters you’ll meet along the way.

  The National Hockey League (NHL) has thirty teams, and each team has an affiliate American Hockey League (AHL) team. The primary purpose of the AHL is to serve as a development league for the NHL, allowing promising players and recent acquisitions/draft picks to improve their hockey skills and physical conditioning. Teams can also “call up” players from their AHL affiliate when necessary, to replace injured players or to give valuable playing experience to potential prospects.

  Players on the NHL team can also be sent down to the AHL, if it is deemed a good idea for the player’s individual development.

  The ECHL or East Coast Hockey League, which is the league where the Scoring Chances series takes place, is a double-minor league, or the league directly below the AHL. There are currently twenty-eight teams in the ECHL, and most are affiliated with an AHL team—with an eventual goal of adding two more teams so it is even in number with the NHL/AHL. There have been cases when one ECHL team is a shared affiliate between two NHL teams.

  Confusing? All you really need to know is that the ECHL is a feeder league for the AHL, which is a feeder league for the NHL. In the Scoring Chances series, all the NHL/AHL affiliates are correct as of time of publication, but it should be noted that these can change quite often in between seasons. All ECHL teams, their locations and their affiliates in the Scoring Chances series are fictional (with the exception of the Cincinnati Cyclones).

  Like the AHL, players can be “called up” and “sent down” as necessary.

  It’s important to note two main differences between the ECHL and the other two leagues. The ECHL is not dependent on a draft, so coaches are free to choose their own roster. Anyone can try out for a spot. The other difference is money. And this is a big one—ECHL players generally make about $12,000 per year (plus housing expenses), compared to about $40,000 a year for your average player in the AHL. Of course, the amount is much higher for an NHL player—but not quite, say, the level of your average NFL player.

  In the first book in this series, Breakaway, Jared refers to the ECHL as Easy Come, Hard to Leave, which is a moniker I learned from reading Sean Pronger’s excellent book, Journeyman: The Many Triumphs (and Even More Defeats) Of a Guy Who’s Seen Just About Everything In the Game of Hockey. I cannot recommend this book enough, and reading the hilarious and informative anecdotes of Sean Pronger’s career—played primarily in the ECHL—is what made me want to write about minor-league hockey players in the first place. The book also provided a lot of insight and ideas for the character that would become Jared Shore. Like Sean Pronger, Shore is a veteran “journeyman” who’s spent his long career playing for a multitude of teams and wearing a lot of terrible jerseys along the way.

  If you’re interested in how minor professional hockey came to be a thing in the southern United States, I also highly recommend Hockey Night in Dixie: Minor Pro Hockey in the American South, by Jon C. Stott. This book proved to be an excellent resource and made me appreciate the tenacity of those determined to sell ice hockey to Southerners obsessed with college football (or, in my family’s case, college basketball).

  I have tried to keep true to the rules of hockey, both in game play and administrative operations within the ECHL—without being a stickler. Any glaring errors (or convenient road-trip stopovers) I blame on artistic license.

  Finally a brief word about the references made in Power Play to the Boston Bruins winning the Stanley Cup. In 2011, five years prior to the original publication date of this novel, the Bruins did skate off with hockey’s ultimate prize. I fully admit to changing the details for dramatic effect, so the Bruins beat the Montreal Canadiens (the Habs) in the Eastern Conference Finals instead of the first round.

  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 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 looking forward to 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 he was still knocked out cold and left 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.

  Chapter Two

  Max Ashford looked a lot different than Misha remembered.

  Of course the way Misha remembered Max was lying unmoving on the ice, still as a corpse. A sight he still saw sometimes, in the dark spaces where his dreams should be.

  Belsey smiled in his anticipatory way, waiting to see what they’d do. When Misha was hired as head coach, he was under the impression that they were still in the process of interviewing an assistant coach. No doubt Max was similarly uninformed, because he couldn’t quite manage to hide his surprise when he first saw Misha.

  Misha shook his hand, and their eyes met. Max’s were a clear, bright green. Expressive. The rest of his countenance was defiantly mulish, but Misha understood the silent communication, the message Max was sending with his posture and his look.

  “Don’t give him the satisfaction,” it said. “Play it cool.”

  Misha smiled politely. “Max. Good to see you.” In a strange way, it was. Better than the last time Misha had seen him, certainly.

  “You too,” Max said, even though Misha doubted he meant it. Max stepped back, and his hands migrated to his pockets. Misha leaned casually against the desk and crossed his arms. They both looked at Belsey.

  Belsey glanced between them and clapped his hands together like a seal. He looked disappointed, or at least his oil-slick smile was nowhere to be found. “Well. Now that you two have... met, I’m sure you have a lot to discuss. I’ll leave you to it. Shall I?”

  Misha watched impassively as Belsey excused himself and left the door open as he ducked into the hallway. He wondered what Belsey expected would happen. That Max would go for Misha’s eyes? Kick him in the kneecap? Shout insults at him? Cry?

  “So. This is awkward.”

  Misha blinked and turned toward Max. He hadn’t expected Max to say anything, but he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if he knew Max at all. “A bit,” he agreed, unsure what he was supposed to say. Even if he’d run through a thousand versions of what he’d say to Max if he had the chance, the possibility of it actually happening had never occurred to him.

  The one thing he knew he should say, the thing he wanted to say, wouldn’t come.

  I’m sorry.

  Not only did that seem much too trivial, Misha worried it might upset the delicate balancing act they seemed to be performing just to annoy their general manager.

  The years had been kind to Max, even if fate had not. He was dark-haired, clean-shaven, clear-eyed. He looked to be in good shape, and wore a suit that was tailored to his frame. Handsome. Misha should not have noticed that. But he was glad to see Max was healthy, even if the guilt was eating him up inside that Max was there, instead of on the ice where he should be.

  “I think we disappointed Belsey,” Max said. His voice was even enough, but his hands were still shoved in his pockets.

  “I’m not sorry about that,” Misha said. Max darted a look at him and gave a slight smile. He turned away and looked at the empty walls and the empty desk.

  “Me neither. Look, Samarin, I can do this. It’s fine.”

  Misha nodded, even though Max wasn’t looking at him. “Yes.” He had no idea what else to say. Maybe Belsey didn’t actually expect a fight between Misha and Max, but he should have foreseen awkwardness and tension. Misha had no idea how pairing them was supposed to help their hockey team, but apparently Max did.

  “He’s going to use this to get people here.” Max’s voice was tight.

  Misha’s stomach knotted unpleasantly. They would be one more enticement for the fans, another marketing tool to sell tickets. Misha thought the job would let him move past that single, defining moment of a career that spanned two decades—a career that ended in a Stanley Cup ring that he’d never worn, because he didn’t think he deserved it.

  All of it would be dredged out again—Satan Samarin, the names, the harsh accusations. He could feel a headache starting behind his eyes.

  “We’ll have to give them something else to pay attention to,” Misha said. “Max,” he started, still uncertain. You ruined this man’s life. The least you could do is say you’re sorry.

  “Don’t.” Max turned to face him and held a hand up. His voice was tight. “Don’t say it. I don’t need to hear it. It doesn’t change anything.”

  Misha accepted that with a slight nod, because of course Max was right. Wor
ds weren’t enough to undo the damage Misha had done to him. “All right. And when they bring it up? The media?”

  “Are we good enough to have any media?” Max asked and then cleared his throat. “The team, I mean.”

  “I don’t think so. If we were, Belsey wouldn’t be relying on anything else to bring in fans.”

  Max shoved his hands in his pockets again. “Yeah. Well, say whatever you want. We’ll say it’s behind us. Because it is.” His gaze sharpened.

  Misha nodded again, but he wondered if that was true—if it could ever be true for either of them.

  “Let’s talk about the team,” Max said. “And the facilities. It’d be good to see those.” He wanted to get out of the office. Misha could tell. He couldn’t blame him. It seemed too small a space to accommodate the weight of all the history between them.

  All of that history, and that was the first time they’d ever spoken.

  They had two weeks before training camp to get a plan together, and it was not going well.

  Misha was not a talkative man, though he’d learned that he was an effective coach. He knew hockey better than he could express in either his adopted or native language, and it was always easier for him to communicate on the ice than off it.

  But Max seemed no more relaxed around Misha than he had been when they were introduced—re-introduced?—in Misha’s office. When they were going over the last year’s rosters and the current year’s tryout lists, game footage, and statistics, Misha would sometimes catch Max looking at him—studying him.

  He wondered what Max saw. Was he, like Misha, pondering the strangeness of the universe that had brought them together as though it were determined to give them a story with a shared beginning instead of just a shared end? It was a ridiculous thought, fanciful in ways that made Misha feel ridiculous, but he couldn’t quite shake it.

  “Did the last coach leave any notes?” Max asked him as they met in the tiny room just off the locker room that was ostensibly Misha’s office. “Because I don’t think there was an assistant coach before me.”