It seems like six-foot-nine enforcer Wellington Dunn’s hockey career with the Halifax Buccaneers is about to come to end and that he can now devote his time to finishing his Master’s degree in Russian literature. That is, until the Ottawa Senators sign centreman Vasily Pisov, whose father is head of Russian intelligence. Overnight, Dunn finds himself recruited by the Canadian Security Intelligence Service to play in the NHL and spy on Pisov. What ensues is a zany romp through the worlds of hockey and espionage. Warning: This book contains sex and humour.
About the author
Bob Bent, author of Spy on Ice, was born in Amherst, lived most of his life in and around Lawrencetown, and now lives in Middleton and Cottage Cove, Nova Scotia. He has had stories published in The Nashwaak Review, All Rights Reserved, and Feathertale Review; a piece of nonfiction in The Barnstormer, and a series of travel/running articles in Run Nova Scotia Raconteur. A collection of whimsical stories for children and grandmothers, Have Yourself a Silly Little Christmas, illustrated by Andrea Wood, was published in 2013. A collection of serious short stories, The Last Time I Saw Alice was published in March 2018. He also has the largest collection of Russian Classical Music in Middleton.
Excerpt: Spy on Ice (by (author) Bob Bent)
I don’t mind admitting I was scared. Playing for the Ottawa Senators made me nervous enough, but the spy thing scared the blue bejeebers out of me. Senator Herring, being the experienced politician he was, read my reaction correctly and began a skillful selling job. He handed me an Air Canada folder and a cheque. I looked at the cheque, then back at him, speechless. It was for a hundred thousand dollars and had my name on it.
“That’s your signing bonus,” he said. Then he handed me a four-page legal document with a small blue corner triangle. “That’s your contract. Sign it, then read it carefully.”
I skimmed the document, but the room was spinning so fast it was hard to comprehend it all. “This is a lot of money,” I said quietly.
“We don’t mess around, Wellington.”
"No, I guess not," I mumbled and signed on the dotted line.