Page 1 of Icebreaker

Chapter one

Axel

Ientered the Portland Lumberjacks' brand spanking new practice facility plagued by jet lag and a sour mood. The sharp scents of fresh paint and new rubber mats wrinkled my nose.

So, this was the home of my new team, way out in Oregon on the Pacific coast. The last position I wanted to take was the over-the-hill veteran on an NHL expansion squad.

I didn't have a say in it. The suits running the team expected me to be the guiding light for rookies and journeyman minor leaguers who were overdue for a chance at the big time. Yeah, me, the ill-tempered, grumpy defenseman with more than a touch of social anxiety.

Still, hockey was all I had left in my life to feel good about, and I'd be damned if I let something like playing for a guaranteed first-season washout team get between the ice and me.

As I stepped into the locker room, I spotted my cute little stall with an 8 1/2 by 11 black-and-white glossy photo of my sneering face and an embossed, gold-lettered label with my name—Axel Karlsson. Born in Sweden, I came to the U.S. as a college student and, for better or worse, never left.

My mother's death when I was only six had left a yawning void in my life. My fisherman father, Sven, tried to make up for it through meticulous care and mostly succeeded.

He raised me and my sister, Maja, alone, and our mutual love of hockey became our shared sanctuary. When the news came out about my trade to the Portland Lumberjacks, it set in motion fateful life changes for both of us.

At his insistence, my father retired from fishing and packed up all of his belongings to move to Portland. He refused to let the Atlantic Ocean separate us for any longer.

Returning to the present, I heaved my gear bag onto the bench beside me with a thud and began transforming from a halfway respectable man on the street to a beast of a hockey defenseman. My movements were mechanical and joyless, the pain of yesterday's cross-country flight still with me.

At six foot three inches, no cheating, and 220 or so pounds, maybe a little cheating there, I tended to tower over almost everyone but the goalie. It worked for me. I had a body built like a brick wall.

Around me, my new teammates chattered and laughed. I assumed they were merely squirrely about playing in the big time, most of them rookies and guys with only two or three years at the top level behind them.

The noise grated on my frayed nerves, and I kept my head down. The last thing I would have imagined was that the giggly laughs were about me.

But then, when I reached into the specific compartment of my bag reserved for my trusty skates, my hand closed around something different. I frowned and pulled out a pair of…

"What the fuck?" I growled as I stared in disbelief at a neon pink pair of figure skates clutched in my right hand.

I'd only been out of sight of my bag for less than five minutes. It allowed me to exchange a quick greeting with the coach. The locker room suddenly grew silent as I looked around, hoping to spot the ridiculous perpetrator.

A snort of laughter that broke the silence, like a sprinter false-starting, gave it away. I recognized the face, particularly the bright blue eyes, from a news conference I'd watched two days earlier.

He was a rookie, fresh out of college. His name was Quinn something or other. He grinned at me and put his hand to his mouth to hold in a full belly laugh.

"I…I didn't know the Lumberjacks were branching out. I guess figure skating…ah…makes sense." He smirked and nearly coughed while I fumed.

Glaring at him, I didn't share his amusement. Just what I needed to make a bad day worse—a smartass kid who thought he was the next coming of Gretzky.

"Think you can teach me how to do a triple axel…Axel?" Three other players laughed at that one.

"Hilarious." I dropped the pink abominations on the bench. "You must be the rookie comedian. Every team's gotta have one."

My withering stare didn't faze him. He kept grinning and stuck out his hand for a shake.

"Quinn O'Reilly, and yeah, forward, prankster, and believe it or not, I've done a stint teaching little kids how to figure skate."

I rolled my eyes, but I took his hand anyway. It was a firm grip and warm, his palm calloused like a hockey player's from years of handling the stick. An electric jolt that traveled up my forearm startled me and caused me to take a second look at the upstart.

"Axel Karlsson," I grunted, the words escaping under my breath. "Defenseman, first to block a shot and last to leave the ice. I'm a grumpy old geezer, and I don't have a fuck to give about figure skating."

For some damn reason, my answer caused Quinn to smile from ear to ear. He was cute. I had to give him that.

He was just under six feet and lean and wiry. That little sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose should have given me a heads-up about the prankster attitude.

"Well, Mr. Axel, I think we'll get along fine even if you can't land a fancy jump to save your life."

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