Power Play

by Avon Gale

  “That’s gonna be quite the highlight reel.”

  Belsey. It would be too much, Misha thought wryly, to hope he could remain undisturbed until the game was over. “I am sure you will think of an appropriate song.”

  Belsey leaned against the doorway, his eyes shrewd. Misha saw him eyeing his ring. He wondered if Belsey was jealous. The thought made him tilt his hand slightly so it caught the light and sparkled even more. Max would say it was very Bruin of him. Misha would agree.

  “I know you think I’m an asshole, Samarin. And I am. But not so much that I won’t say good job this year, because you and Ashford are a good team. And maybe I hired you for publicity, but I figured if it pissed you off, you’d prove me wrong. And if it didn’t, maybe it’d work.” He shrugged. “The best solutions are always ones where I win in the end.”

  “You think we won?” Misha asked. “It is a serious question, Jack.”

  Misha had never used Belsey’s first name, and there was a glimmer of surprise on Belsey’s face at hearing it. “Ticket sales are up. We’re not the worst team in the league. We have more sponsors. And we made the playoffs. What the hell else would you call it?” Belsey rolled his eyes. “Look. I want to win the Kelly Cup. Sure. But you don’t just go from playing Little League Hockey to the Bruins. Right? There’s a bunch of shit in between. I didn’t make all my money with lotto numbers. It takes some time.”

  Misha could not quite believe he was being lectured by Jack Belsey, of all people, about patience and perseverance. But he couldn’t say he was wrong—except about Little League hockey, which he was sure did not exist. “I suppose it does.”

  “Yup. And that’s why I signed you to a three-year initial contract. I got what I wanted out of this year. More than, actually. So I’ll give you my credit card and you can give it to the bartender at Sidelines and tell them the team’s celebration is on me. And it has to be at Sidelines, because I want them as a sponsor next year. Got it?”

  “Yes,” Misha said. He paused. “What did you do before you owned a hockey team? You say all the time you weren’t a nice man making money, but how did you do it?”

  “Hmm? Oh. Investment banking. That’s why I’m an asshole and a people person, Samarin. I’m good at taking risks with other people’s money.” He shrugged. “But I was too good at it. So time for something else. I thought this would be a challenge. And the team was cheap as fuck.”

  Misha stared at him, oddly tempted to give Jack Belsey his Stanley Cup ring. Here too was a man who didn’t let adversity keep him from what he wanted—even if he was a bit of a sleazeball with questionable morals. Still a better man than Denis St. Savoy. But Misha was beginning to like the weight of the ring on his finger, so maybe he would keep it.

  “So anyway... good job. And tell Coach Ashford. Talk about someone who doesn’t like me.” Belsey grinned. “He likes you, though. Didn’t see that coming, but hey. Tell him I’ll make his contract three years too. He’s actually not a bad coach. Got a knack for it. Anyway, we good here?”

  “Yes,” Misha said, because it seemed the only possible answer.

  Belsey handed over his credit card and whistled at Misha’s ring. “Was wondering where you kept that, since I’ve never seen you wear it before. Hey. If you need a name of a place to have that baby cleaned, let me know. I got a place that does all of mine.”

  Misha thanked him and put the card in his wallet. As Belsey left, whistling out of tune, he heard the sound of a buzzer signaling the end of the game, and with it, the end of the Spitfires’ season.

  When the team made their way into the locker room, they were clearly disappointed at both the loss and the way the game had ended. Misha watched as Max blew his whistle a few times to get their attention.

  “You should be proud of yourselves,” he said. “Every one of you. What you accomplished this year is so far beyond anyone’s expectations, and they should be ashamed for doubting you. They won’t do it again. They’re going to expect even more from you next season. So will I and so will Coach Samarin. And I know without a doubt that you’ll give it to us.” Max grinned. “Just like you gave it to the Ravens.”

  That got a rowdy cheer from the team.

  Isaac Drake got up to speak after Max and waived his goalie stick for silence. “Thanks for scoring that last goal,” Drake said, smiling at Jakob. “That was brilliant. And thanks, guys. We brought it this year, and I can’t wait to see what we do next year. Which is gonna be win the goddamn Kelly Cup, because this team is fucking awesome, and I’m honored to be the captain. Speaking of the Cup,” Drake said with a grim smile, “I don’t know about y’all, but I’m suddenly the biggest Jacksonville Sea Storm fan in the world, and I can’t wait to see them send those assholes back to Asheville in tears.”

  That also got a cheer. Even from Misha.

  It was time for Misha to say something. “I should not have lost my temper,” he said and then held up his hand. The lights glinted off the ring on his finger as he turned his palm and showed the team. “I never wore this because I did not think I deserved it. I did not play in the games that won my team the Stanley Cup. But you have all taught me that being a champion isn’t about winning. It’s about how you play the game.” His eyes briefly touched Max’s. “It’s about how you get up and keep playing even after you fall. It’s about holding each other up instead of tearing each other down. My team stands together. My team does not go down without a fight. And my team did not have to win that game, or a trophy, to show me that they are champions. My team is the Spartanburg Spitfires, and I am proud to call myself one of you.”

  Misha didn’t get a cheer, but there were a number of players with suspiciously bright eyes who were sniffling. That was even better. Misha noticed that even Max blinked up at the ceiling a few times.

  “Now,” Misha said, pulling Belsey’s card out of his pocket. “We celebrate. Sidelines. And the drinks are on Belsey.”

  With one last, resounding cheer, the Spitfires went to clean out their lockers.

  Across the room Misha met Max’s eyes. He briefly glanced toward the door to his office. Max grinned at him. He clearly got the message that they might need to have one last, end-of-the-year coach’s meeting before divesting Belsey of some of his money at the bar with their team.

  Might as well end the season on a high note. For once, Misha thought, being an optimist wasn’t too bad.

  Keep reading for an exclusive excerpt from Empty Net

  By Avon Gale

  A Scoring Chances Novel

  Chapter One

  There was no way in hell this was actually happening.

  There were a lot of times in Isaac Drake’s life that he had that thought—the night his parents threw him out and he had nowhere to sleep, the first guy he’d charged for a blowjob, the sight of his name on the roster for the Spartanburg Spitfires, his first game, his first shootout, going to the playoffs last year.

  And being spit on by the man who was sitting in Coach Samarin’s office, looking about as happy to see Isaac as Isaac was to see him.

  The last time Isaac had seen Laurent St. Savoy was in Asheville, North Carolina. Isaac and his teammates made an impromptu road trip so they could cheer their heads off when the Jacksonville Sea Storm swept the Ashville Ravens right out of the playoffs and went on to repeat as Kelly Cup champions.

  The Spartanburg Spitfires had started the previous season as the worst team in the ECHL and ended it with a playoff run where they fell to the Asheville Ravens. The Ravens closed out their season as the most despised team in the entire league. And one of the reasons was the sullen young man staring daggers at Isaac from across the room.

  “Isaac, have a seat.” Coach Samarin, standing tall and somber and in a suit, only ever called Isaac by his first name when they were at their weekly pick-up hockey game or at home.

  Isaac had been living with Coach Samarin since a former trick showed up at the apartment Isaac shared with his teammate Matt Huxley and tried to convince Isaac to abandon
his ice hockey career in favor of shooting amateur gay porn. At first it had just been annoying, but when Jeff provided video evidence—filmed without Isaac’s approval, thank you very much—and threatened to post it on the Internet and contact the media, shit got real. Isaac made an admittedly stupid attempt to sacrifice himself for the greater good of his teammates, and then he moved in with his coach and mentor, Misha Samarin.

  Coach Samarin gave him a place to stay, which allowed him to save his housing allowance from the ECHL so he didn’t have to go back to offering blowjobs for cash during the summer. He reminded Isaac that the world was not full of people who wanted to fuck you over at every opportunity, and he was basically the most important person who’d ever come into Isaac’s life. He was also a six-foot-something, imposing-as-fuck gay dude who lived with their hottie of an assistant coach. Isaac played for the gayest team on the ECHL, or so he liked to think, and he’d never been in the closet about his sexuality.

  Clearly why the dickhead sitting in Coach Samarin’s office thought it was cool to call him a fag and spit on him—and all of that after the motherfucker refused to fight Isaac while their teams were involved in a line brawl during the Spitfires’ final game of the season.

  “Why is he here?” Isaac asked and hastily sat down when Coach Samarin gave him that dark, demon-eyed stare that meant do what I told you. He gave it to Coach Ashford all the time about loading the dishwasher. Misha had opinions about proper plate arrangement.

  “He’s our new goalie.”

  The words were not spoken by Coach Samarin, but by the general manager of the Spitfires, Jack Belsey.

  Isaac was never sure what to think about Belsey. When he bought the team and named himself the GM, he also hired a new coaching staff that turned the team around for the better. But on the other hand, Belsey hired Coach Ashford because of an injury he’d sustained at the hands of Misha Samarin when they both played hockey in the majors.

  But Belsey had also paid for an epic celebration after their playoff appearance, and, though he’d told Isaac not to tell Misha—Isaac told him anyway—he also paid for the accommodations and transportation to send his team to watch the Ravens humiliated on their home ice at the hands of the Jacksonville Sea Storm. He also didn’t care that his coaches were living together, or that they had their gay goalie as a guest in the upstairs bedroom. Belsey probably thought they were all fucking, and he wouldn’t be the only one. But that didn’t seem to bother him either.

  “He’s one of our goalies,” Coach Samarin bit out, his jaw so tight Isaac was surprised words could escape. He glared at Belsey, who was apparently the only person immune to the power of Coach’s laser stare.

  “Yes, yes,” Belsey said with a scowl and waved a hand at Coach Samarin like he was a particularly irritating insect. “But I thought you might like the incentive, Drake.”

  Incentive? Incentive? “For what?” Isaac demanded. “Aggravated assault?”

  “Now, Drake.” Belsey smiled his oil-slick smile, and Isaac began to rethink his position on Belsey. It was slowly sliding from “mildly annoying but sometimes okay” into “dislike” with each second. “Competition is good for the soul, and being a better team means proving you’re the right man for the starting job.”

  “Excuse me, Jack,” Misha interrupted coldly. “You hired me to coach this team, and I have more than proven that I am capable of winning games. It’s my decision who starts this season, and it will be Isaac.”

  Belsey rolled his eyes. “This is hockey, as you’re always telling me. It’s not personal.”

  “I thought we decided to stop a hiring policy based on dramatics,” Misha snapped.

  Did Belsey even have a smile that wasn’t unctuous? “Did we? It seemed to work out well for you and Coach Ashford.”

  While Misha struggled with his temper, Isaac turned toward Laurent and was once again struck by how goddamn gorgeous the guy was. It wasn’t fair, because his father. looked like a buzzard, and Laurent was so hot that his being an absolute asshole should have been a federal crime. “How’d you end up traded here, anyway? You get demoted from daddy’s team after y’all got your asses kicked by the Storm? He send you here to learn how to be a better goalie?”

  St. Savoy met his eyes and didn’t say a word. His eyes resembled dark, delicious chocolate, and his lashes were full and thick. The universe was seriously a bitch.

  Belsey laughed. “That’s exactly what I wanted to see out of you, Drake. You’re the captain of this team, so you’ve gotta have more fire than anybody. We done here, Coach Samarin? Where’s that boyfriend of yours, anyway? Thought he might want to show up for meetings, seeing as how he’s the assistant coach and all.”

  Before Misha could say anything, Laurent spoke for the first time.

  “How many fucking fags are on this team?”

  Unlike their little incident in the playoffs, Isaac didn’t have to wait for St. Savoy to take his mask off before he punched him in the face. He knew he’d get in trouble, but goddamn, did it feel good.

  Laurent hated Isaac Drake. Hated him.

  He hated his stupid blue hair, his cocky grin, and the way he swaggered, even though he was way too short and slender to be a goalie. Hated his stupid lip piercing and his easy camaraderie with his teammates. Hated that his coach had gone after Laurent’s father on his behalf.

  When Laurent saw Misha Samarin stalking across the ice during the playoffs last year, he expected the coach to take a swing at him. His father wanted that. Laurent knew he did. They’d been told to win, and that meant doing whatever they could to knock the Spitfires off their game. And in Ravens terms, that meant trash talk and piss them off until they lost their temper. Denis St. Savoy also wanted Misha Samarin disgraced for some reason or another. Laurent had learned not to ask questions.

  And pissing off Samarin by attacking Drake had worked like a charm. Isaac Drake’s sexuality wasn’t a secret, and honestly, no one cared all that much. But it was a weapon to be used and wielded, and that’s what Laurent had done. No matter how sick he felt to his stomach at having done it.

  It was one of the few times Laurent’s father had been proud of him, even if it hadn’t lasted longer than a nod and a pat on the shoulder. And Laurent knew that meant that what he’d done was wrong. But some part of him—the part that longed for childhood memories of days on the ice with a man who could hug instead of hit—wanted that pride and the approval he could never seem to earn. That pat on the shoulder was the gentlest his father had touched him in years.

  His teammates had been disgusted with him, but they never liked Laurent anyway. His father had seen to that. But for a brief, elusive moment Laurent had been good enough for Denis St. Savoy’s approval. It was over by the time the buzzer sounded.

  Laurent left the Bon Secours arena and headed back on foot to the hotel where he was staying while he looked for a place to live. He didn’t have a car. His father was extremely wealthy but would never allow Laurent that kind of independence. But despite the heat of the day and the throbbing headache thanks to that punch to the face, at least he didn’t have to see his father when he got to the hotel.

  That might have made it all worthwhile.

  Laurent ducked his head and avoided looking at anyone as he caught the elevator up to his room. Once there he examined himself in the bathroom mirror. He gently skirted the bruising around his eye and thought about Drake. He didn’t care that Drake was gay, any more than he cared other people were straight. He didn’t care that the coaches for his new team were in a relationship. But he couldn’t help himself. The instant dislike aimed at him from both Drake and Coach Samarin made Laurent resort to his usual horrible behavior when he felt threatened.

  What the fuck did you expect? They weren’t going to like you. No one does.

  Laurent closed his eyes, breathed, and told himself there was nothing left in his stomach to expel and he didn’t need to make himself sick. He wasn’t. He was just tired, and he should do something about the black eye from
Drake’s right hook and take a nap. He didn’t need to eat anything either. The thought made him relax slightly, even as his stomach growled with hunger.

  He drank a few glasses of water and took two Excedrin. He told himself they were for the pain and not because he wanted the caffeine to stop him from feeling hungry. He hated being at the mercy of his body. Half the time Laurent just wanted to pretend he didn’t exist.

  Then he lay in his bed, hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. He tried counting his breaths. He tried everything he could think of, but the caffeine kept him up. He ran through that meeting over and over and saw the looks of pure dislike aimed at him from Isaac Drake and Misha Samarin and the utter disinterest on behalf of the Spitfires’ general manager. He thought he’d finally escaped that by getting traded from his father’s team, but all he’d managed to do was find yet another place where no one wanted him.

  Laurent got out of bed and went to the bathroom, where he knelt on the floor like some penitent and made himself throw up anything in his stomach. It was mostly water, and when he was finished, he sat on the bathroom floor and pressed his face into the cold tile floor.

  And then he went to bed.

  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.