Page 35 of Icebreaker

Carrying my gear bag slung over my shoulder like some hockey Santa Claus, I pushed open the door to the locker room for another practice session. I walked into a storm of whispered conversations and uneasy glances.

From the other side of the entrance, the locker room sounded like a hive of activity, but as soon as I stepped inside, it was like someone suddenly sucked the air out and left a vacuum. Conversations faded into silence, and the clank of gear was louder than usual.

My teammates, usually a laughing, chattering bunch, divided into small groups, bowing their heads and dropping their voices to hushed tones. I scowled as I looked around.

My stall was at the far end of the room, and I had to walk a gauntlet of staring eyes to get there. The few words I heard were undoubtedly about me.

"Did you hear about Axel and Quinn?" muttered one of our younger forwards to a small group huddled around a bulletin board. "I mean, it's gotta be weird, playing alongside your…well, you know."

"Yeah," another added in agreement. "And with all the Dante drama from before? Are we going to show up in the sports show gossip reels?"

Their words trailed into whispers as I walked past them. They darted away and sat on the benches, trying to look busy wrapping sticks or tying skatelaces.

I reached my stall and began my usual routine of suiting up. My pads and jersey felt like temporary shields against the clouds of doubt surrounding me. Each rattle of hangers and zip of bags reminded me of the precarious balance between our personal and professional lives.

When the buzz died down for a few minutes, Max approached and clapped a hand on my shoulder. He nodded toward a far corner of the locker room.

"Axel, got a sec?" The tone of his voice was casual, but his facial expression was grim.

We stood near a set of old-fashioned metal lockers that held spare pads and skates "just in case." Max folded his arms over his chest, and his brow creased with concern. "Look, man, I've been on your side since day one, and it's not going to change now, but the vibes in here are getting weird."

It was impossible to miss what he was talking about. "You mean the rumor mill, right?" I asked, my shoulders tensing for what might be coming next.

"Yeah, the rumors are rude comments," Max confirmed with a nod. "It used to be an idle statement here and there, but now it'sgetting into the team headspace. I'm worried it'll throw off our play."

I sighed, reached up, and raked my fingers through my wiry hair. "Thanks for bringing it up, Max. I'll see what I can do. I'd hate to screw the team over with my personal life." I scoffed lightly.

Max wouldn't let me dismiss him so easily. He looked straight at me. "I'm not only thinking about the team, Axel. It's you and Quinn, too. It's got me worried for you. With the Dante crap in the background…I worry about history repeating itself, and not in the best ways."

While I leaned back against the lockers, the cold of the metal seeped into my shoulder blades. "I know you've got what's best for me in mind, and I'm trying to manage it all better this time. Quinn and I aren't hiding anything, but we want to keep the drama to a minimum."

"But you haven't completely managed that, have you?" Max pushed. "I've heard Dante is here in Portland. It feels like the entire team is waiting for the other shoe to drop."

He was right to have concerns. "So, what do you think we should do?"

Max shrugged and sighed. "I don't have all the answers—I wish I did—but maybe you and Quinn should check your armor and make sure you're ready for what might come next. And not just for yourselves, but for the rest of us, too."

"Thanks, bud. I'll talk to Quinn, and we'll figure something out." While I tried to reassure him, I wasn't so confident in myself.

Max nodded. "I know you will, and I'm betting you'll come through this time with flying colors. Remember, I'm on your side, and you can lean on me."

I offered a wordless "thank you" by clapping him on the shoulder and returning to my stall. I appreciated his bold honesty.

With my gear finally on, I clunked along with my skates on the hard concrete as I headed for the ice. Each step was heavier than the last, while the whispers from my teammates replayed inside my head, looping like an endless reel of doubts and accusations.

The chill of the ice welcomed me. It swept the locker room's overheated atmosphere away. Under the bright arena lights, I had always been able to ignore everything but the swish of my skates and the thunk of the puck hitting sticks. I had been just another one of the players, at least for a little while.

I tapped Quinn's stick with mine, and we slipped into familiar patterns. Our passes threaded the needle, and we synched up our movements like a well-oiled machine. Unfortunately, I couldn't completely ignore the wave of watchful eyes from our teammates.

During a lull in practice, I skated past Sergei, one of our veteran wingers, as he spoke with a rookie. "Word of advice, kid," he growled. "Steer clear of all the garbage chatter. We're here to play hockey, not get tangled up in a soap opera."

I knew I should let it go, but something about Sergei's tone got under my skin. I glided over with my jaw set. "Something on your mind?" I asked, trying to sound calm, like a gentle summer breeze.

Sergei looked at me, focusing his gray, flinty eyes. "Just trying to keep a fellow Lumberjack on track, Karlsson. Sideshows are a distraction, and we can't afford that if we want to put on a good showing for our first season."

A growl underlined my words in response. "My personal life is not a sideshow." My fingers slowly curled into fists. "I'm here to play the game, like always. I expect my teammates to do the same."

Sergei raised his hands, attempting to calm the situation. "Take it easy. Just looking out for the younger guys."

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