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 all my fellow Hearties on FB and everyone who appreciates a good rivalry. Go Bruins!
I’D LIKE
to thank Gigi, Katinka, Morgan, Nicole, Piper, Steph, and Vicki for all the encouragement and support, everyone at Dreamspinner for continuing to be amazing, and all y’all who have so kindly taken the time out of your lives to spend time with my characters. Thank you so much!
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.
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.
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.
