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.