Power Play

by Avon Gale

  “I won’t, Coach.”

  “He still calls me that even though he runs the outreach program and doesn’t play for me anymore,” Spencer said, but there was a fond look on the gruff man’s face. “Anyway you probably heard, but the Ice Dogs got their asses handed to them by the Ravens, so that’s probably who you’ll be up against. I fucking hate the Ravens’ coach, so if you could beat them, we would all appreciate it.” Spencer leaned back in his chair and shouted, “Halley! Are you texting your girlfriend when you should be partying? Goddammit. That kid will win the Stanley Cup and take it to a fucking library while his girlfriend does math on it.”

  Halley, he who was fond of libraries and mathematicians, just ignored his coach and held up a beer in his left hand without looking away from his phone.

  “You could tell her to just come up here,” Spencer muttered. “She doesn’t live that far away. Fucking kids and their fucking cell phones. In my day you wanted to see your girlfriend? You threw shit at her window or made her lie to her parents. Becker! Don’t put another goddamn dollar in that lotto machine. What is the matter with you?” Spencer heaved a sigh, stood up, and offered his hand. “I’ll send a round over. Good game. Maybe we’ll see you in the conference finals.”

  Max and Misha both shook his hand again, and a few minutes later, the bartender delivered two beers to their table. They were joined by Drake, who was wearing a pair of jeans that looked like he bought them at a Slipknot concert, a too-tight black T-shirt, blue hair standing straight up in gelled spikes, and—

  “Are you wearing eyeliner?” Max asked, leaning in for a closer look. Sure enough, there were dark smudges artfully applied beneath both of Drake’s eyes. With his lip piercing and his hair, it actually looked pretty cool and—though Max would absolutely not admit this to anyone except maybe Misha... later... if he were drunk—it was pretty hot.

  “Is that a problem? Or do you think just because Drake plays hockey you need to reinforce traditional standards of manhood. Huh?” The kid with the shaved head and the tattoos fixed narrowed hazel eyes on Max.

  “Yeah, Coach,” Drake drawled, all attitude and defiance for absolutely no fucking reason whatsoever. Unless he was trying to show off and get himself invited to a threesome, since Max surmised the Storm’s outreach coordinator was Hunter’s boyfriend. “I can be a man and still wear eyeliner.”

  “Sure,” Max said and shrugged. He eyed Kennedy, with the scowl and the attitude problem, then looked at Hunter. Up close he was about as tall as Misha and all legs. “Good game. You’re a fucking roadblock.” He held his hand out. “Max Ashford.”

  “Riley Hunter.” He gave Max a good, firm handshake and turned toward Misha. “You’re Misha Samarin.”

  “Yes,” Misha said, his Misha face perfectly in place, wary and remote as he waited for people to inevitably disappoint him.

  Riley cleared his throat. “So, you were—you played for the Devils. I remember, ’cause I’m a huge Devils fan. Even in the years when they didn’t win any Cups and everyone thought they were boring.”

  “Fucking neutral-zone trap,” Max muttered. For some reason Max had completely forgotten that Misha had played for teams other than the Bruins.

  “I did. Yes,” Misha said, still sounding wary.

  “Do you mind...?” Riley pulled out a pen and handed over a Bombers coaster. “Sorry. It’s just I’ve been a Devils fan my whole life, and... y’know. You won a Stanley Cup. Even if it was with the Bruins and not the Devils.”

  “Smooth, boyfriend,” said the punk kid. But he was smiling. “Smooth. That went just like you planned it.”

  “Shut up, Ethan,” Riley said. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a Rangers fan.”

  Max would have said something, but he couldn’t. He was too amused watching a very uncomfortable and attention-hating Misha sign an autograph. Misha handed the coaster back. With more of his accent coming through than usual, he said, “Impressive goaltending.”

  Riley smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “Not impressive enough tonight.” There was a glint in his dark eyes that showed just how much the kid hated losing despite his friendly demeanor. Max thought idly that he would also look good in eyeliner.

  “You can’t win ’em all,” Drake said. Then he used his mouth to do something to the beer bottle that made Max roll his eyes and Misha smother what Max was pretty sure was a laugh. “Come on, guys. Next round’s on me.”

  Max waited until the trio was safely at the bar. Then he leaned across the table and said, “So, you’d suck Riley Hunter off in the shower? You would, huh? I think you were totally checking out his ass.”

  “Shhh,” Misha said. “I signed an autograph for him, Max. An autograph.”

  Max took a drink of his beer and grinned. “I wonder how I’d look in eyeliner.”

  “You’d probably poke yourself in the eye putting it on,” Misha said.

  Max didn’t respond, but he took a page from Drake’s book and drank as suggestively as he could from his beer bottle. When a furtive glance showed him no one was paying attention to them, he ran his tongue along the top.

  Misha finished his beer in one long swallow. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Spitfires’ first-round playoff opponents were indeed the Asheville Ravens, and while the entire team, staff, and investors were overjoyed at the unlikely inclusion of the Spitfires in the playoff brackets, no one—even said team, staff, and investors—expected them to win.

  Max knew it was a longshot, and it wasn’t because they weren’t talented. It was because they didn’t have any playoff experience as a team, and while he insisted the attitude in the locker room be one of confidence—which was easier thanks to that win in Jacksonville—he knew the expectations for the Spitfires weren’t that high.

  Belsey had made it clear that they needed to win a playoff game, preferably two—one home, and one away. It would be a huge deal when it came to selling both sponsorships and season tickets. Max and Misha had both been promised bonuses they didn’t care about—and upgrades for the facilities that they did—if they could manage a home-and-away win.

  As riled up and excited as the Spitfires were, it was still a lot of work getting ready for the playoffs. The practices were long and exhausting and they had injuries to contend with and game tapes to go over as they tried to figure out the Asheville Ravens. They’d played the Ravens early in the season, before the Spitfires started to connect as a team, and they’d lost both times. They won the last game of their regular-season series in Spartanburg, but the Ravens had a nearly impeccable record at home and, since they were the top seed, would have home-ice advantage for the playoffs.

  They also had a legendary goalie, Denis St. Savoy, as a head coach. And his son, Laurent St. Savoy, was in net for the Ravens. The Ravens played a game as grim as their name, seemingly motivated by a hunger for carrion more than anything. They threw dirty hits and were called for diving—what was referred to as “embellishment” in the official rules—more than once, though definitely not as often as they should have been. St. Savoy was an intimidating man, and it was clear he used his past success to threaten his team and—though Max couldn’t prove it—the on-ice officials. Reviewing game tapes showed a lot of goals allowed that Max and Misha both thought shouldn’t have counted.

  They were known as a chirpy team who didn’t pull any punches when trash-talking, and Drake told them flat out that a lot of their players made a point to skate by and call him some kind of gay slur on the ice. “The least St. Savoy could do is teach them better ones,” he said disdainfully. “Half the time they don’t even look like they mean it. I was sort of seeing a guy who plays there last year. Xavier Matthews? But he was so in the closet it wasn’t even funny. And I thought it was just because of his family, since he’s from Asheville, but I think most of it was his coach is a fucking bully.”

  The game tapes said the same thing, and Max hoped his team didn’t lose their tempers and take a lot of penalties, since
most of the Ravens’ goals came on the power play. Max tried to instill in his team the importance of not falling for that kind of tactic, so he had Drake yell at them during drills at practice. That lasted for a week or so, until Misha put a stop to it when it looked like Drake was going to end up jumped in the parking lot by his teammates.

  Despite all their intense preparations, the Spitfires lost to the Ravens in a game that was, if nothing else, surprisingly more well matched than anyone expected. The final score was only 3-2 in favor of the Ravens, and the next game followed suit. The Ravens won in overtime on a goal that was clearly the result of goalie interference that went uncalled, whether deliberately or not. The Ravens’ coach was just as loathsome as ever, and his team was foulmouthed and unlikeable. For better or worse, the Spitfires had definitely found themselves an archrival.

  The Spitfires found their spirits dampened as they returned to Spartanburg down two games to none in the series, but Max knew his team had it in them to pull out a win. They came close in game three, but tempers flared, and the Spitfires found themselves taking too many penalties as a result of the Ravens’ aggressive play. The resulting power plays meant the Ravens skated off with the win, 3-1.

  Unless the Spitfires won game four, they’d find themselves swept on home ice.

  Max knew very well that winning a four-game sweep was incredibly hard, especially away. But the Ravens had swagger to start the game, and when they saw the Ravens’ coach was brandishing a broom behind the bench, that was enough to get the Spitfires’ backs up. After the third game, Max reminded his team that they shouldn’t engage in any extracurricular activities that would lead to power plays, and told them to keep their cool. “Remember the drills where Drake yelled at you? It’s just like that.”

  “Yeah. But Drake’s an asshole in a fun way. These guys are just fucking stupid,” growled Hux, who already had two game-misconduct penalties and, if the glint in his eyes when he saw that broom was any indication, was already planning a third.

  The broom thing really was awful, and even Max found himself glaring at the black-and-blue Ravens bench. It had a red bow on it, which apparently meant the Ravens’ coach intended to make a gift of it after they won. Classy.

  It turned out to be unnecessary, because the Spitfires played with an intensity that impressed the hell out of Max and Misha both. They won their first-ever playoff game in front of a respectable and happy crowd, 4-2.

  The Ravens were less cocky when the Spitfires faced them in game five in Asheville, but that didn’t keep the Spitfires from winning like Max knew they could. It happened in a thrilling double overtime, and the bus ride home to Spartanburg featured a lot of happy shouting and bottles of liquor passed around. Max pretended not to see. They’d done what they were supposed to do—won a game both at home and away—but Max knew his team was fired up, and the possibility of winning the series was tantalizing.

  As was the thought of telling Denis St. Savoy where he could stick his fucking broom.

  That night Misha gave the team strict orders to keep their celebration under control, because they only had one day’s rest before they had to face the Ravens again. He and Misha had their own celebration at home, and with Drake out with the rest of the team, they had it in the kitchen, the living room, and finally the bedroom.

  Misha might have the stoic Russian thing down to a T, but winning got him hot and aggressive, which made Max determined to win every game for the rest of forever.

  The sixth game started off evenly matched. The Ravens behaved themselves for the most part and the Spitfires played good, solid hockey. They were tied going into the first intermission and even ahead by a goal going into the second. But when the Ravens scored twice, early on in the third, the rest of the game went to hell soon after that. The pressure had clearly gotten to the Spitfires, and they weren’t holding up well at all. When the score became five-two in favor of the Ravens, things got ugly.

  The Ravens also favored excessive goal celebrating, and when one of the Ravens decided to spray the goalie with the excess ice from his skate—known as “snowing the goalie”—after he scored a goal, that was about as much as the Spitfires could take. Seconds after the puck was dropped on the ice after the goal, the brawl started. It wasn’t a bench-clearer, but Max sort of wished it were because, unlike the game in Toledo, he wouldn’t mind hopping over and punching the opposing team’s coach in his ugly, beak-nosed face.

  “Here’s Belsey’s next commercial,” Max said, trying to keep the pleasure out of his voice and failing entirely as he watched his team beat up the Ravens. “Hit Me With Your Best Shot.”

  Misha folded his arms over his chest and appeared unimpressed. He turned his attention back to the ice. But the corner of his mouth turned up slightly, and he said, “Fire away.” Max held back a laugh of his own as the officials tried breaking up the fight.

  There was a roar from the crowd, though, and Max watched in surprise as the Ravens’ goalie, Laurent St. Savoy, skated out of the crease and over toward Drake. Drake wasn’t fighting, though he was shouting encouragements and waving his stick in solidarity, but St. Savoy skated right up to him and gave him a shove backward—a clear sign for let’s fight.

  Drake obviously wasn’t going to back down, so he pulled his mask off, tossed it aside with his gloves, and raised his fists in a fighter’s stance. The crowd roared in approval. St. Savoy pushed his mask up off his face, but he didn’t take it off. Even from a distance, Max could tell he was about a thousand times more attractive than his father. He also didn’t take off his gloves before he reached out and shoved Drake hard enough to send him to his back on the ice. The crowd was furious, and so was Max.

  Not as furious when he saw what happened next, though. St. Savoy sneered down at Drake, said something Max couldn’t quite hear, and then—oh, hell no. Laurent St. Savoy did not just knock Drake over and spit on him. What the hell was wrong with that kid?

  “Did he just—Misha.” Shocked, Max watched as Misha threw the gate open and marched out on the ice, right toward the Ravens’ bench. When he got there, he started gesturing to the ice and saying something to St. Savoy, Sr.

  St. Savoy, Sr. laughed. Misha’s expression was thunderous, but before anything could happen, the linesmen finished breaking up the teams on the ice and skated over to pull Misha away. He was probably half a second away from making St. Savoy, Sr.’s nose look even uglier. Max would have liked to see that.

  Misha stiffened and shook off the linesmen’s restraining hands, but he turned around and marched like a war general toward the tunnel without looking back.

  The crowd cheered as the Spitfires’ head coach was ejected from the game, and the players did the same and tapped their sticks furiously on the ice as Misha stormed past them.

  While the penalties were being assessed, Max addressed his team. “Look. I know you’re angry. So am I. But we’re not playing to their level. We’re playing to ours. Go out there and finish this game and give your fans something to cheer for.”

  “That fucking cocksuck—er. I mean, that asshole called Drake a fag and spit on him,” Murph growled. “I was out there. I heard it.”

  Anger sliced through Max, but he tamped it down with effort. He didn’t have Misha’s cool, but his emotions would affect the team, and Max had to make sure they were the right ones. “Then we get him where it hurts. Someone score on that asshole, and let’s call it good.”

  “Me,” Jakob Wawrzyniak said, stepping up. “I will score goal. For Drake.”

  And he did. Two seconds after he hit the ice. It was a goal the Spitfires celebrated with glee, and Max was pleased to see the Ravens’ goalie kick at the ice in frustration.

  Across the ice Drake threw his arms up and cheered right along with his team.

  It didn’t make the Spitfires win, but it didn’t matter. When the game was over, the Ravens tried to celebrate, but the Spitfires ignored them, went out to center ice and raised their sticks as their fans—not a lot, but more than there had b
een—cheered.

  The Ravens weren’t quite finished being assholes, though. They didn’t show up for the traditional post-series handshake line. Maybe that was a good thing, because Max had doubts that Laurent St. Savoy would make it out of there alive.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Misha took a few moments to compose himself in the locker room. He could not recall a time in his life when he felt so dangerously close to losing his temper. But it had felt good to stand up and be angry. To fight. And he enjoyed the crowd’s cheering for him when he went down the tunnel after being ejected.

  No one had cheered when he left the game after the hit on Max. And Misha had not been angry, even though he finally understood that he should have. Misha never fought his suspension, and it was unfair. Misha deserved to play in the finals with the Bruins, and he did not. Nothing would change that. Accidents were accidents. Falling down was part of the game. What mattered was how you got back up again.

  Misha had not gotten back up. Misha had let it beat him down, and that was the real reason he never felt like a champion. It had nothing to do with Max. He had used Max as an excuse because he was afraid.

  He could hear the sounds of the arena music as the game started back up. There wasn’t that much time left on the clock, and he trusted Max could keep the team in check for the remainder of the game.

  Misha looked down at the ring on his hand. It was gaudy, and he hadn’t wanted to wear it. But Max insisted, and Misha liked indulging Max. He especially liked Max rimming him—enough to do just about whatever Max asked of him. So he wore it. It was a strange weight on his hand.

  When he confronted St. Savoy behind the bench, the other man saw his ring and told him he didn’t deserve it. “You didn’t win shit,” he sneered.

  There was a time, not that long before, that Misha would have believed him. But he didn’t. Not anymore. He did not want to be a champion like Denis St. Savoy, who thought it was enough simply to win no matter what. He wanted to be a champion like Max Ashford, who thought there was always a reason to keep playing.