Page 8 of Icebreaker

There was a brief pause. It was one I knew well from decades of parental patience. "That's no way to start game day with a new team. Remember, it's not only about how you play but also making sure you're—"

"As excited about it as I would be about a root canal." I finished the sentence with a smirk. Dad was infinitely patient with the gloomy man I'd become in recent years.

He laughed, and I wished he was with me for a hug. "You're as stubborn as your mother was, you are. Maybe try to find a little spot of fun for your old father. We will all be better for it."

"I'll try. Honestly, I will, but there are no promises on reaching as high as fun."

"That's my boy. Now, show them what it means to be a Karlsson. Love you, Axel."

"Love you, too, Pappa."

As the call ended, I sighed under the weight of expectation already settling on my shoulders. My love for my father was infinitely solid, but his request for fun was another challenge I didn't need. I tossed the charred eggs into the garbage and reached for a protein bar.

On my drive to the arena, I glanced into my rearview mirror to see Mount Hood looming in the distance, brilliant orange and pink morning sun behind it. Most would have found the sight moving, but I'd seen it only as a distraction. My day was about focus, plain and simple.

Although it was early morning and the game was nearly twelve hours away, the arena was already chaotic. Rookies almost vibrated off the walls with nervous energy, and their chatter and laughter echoed down the hallways. I retreated into my familiar gruff silence, pushing through the chaos with a tight jaw and stiff back until I reached the locker room.

There, the atmosphere was slightly more calm. I found my stall, stripped down, and suited up in my hockey gear. It was a familiar, mechanical process, my pregame ritual.

Just as I pulled my jersey over my head, the noise rose like an invisible hand turned the dial from murmur to roar. Suddenly, Quinn appeared next to me. His sunny presence was blindingly bright and impossible to ignore.

"Morning, Axel. Ready to crush it today?" His chirpy question tested my patience. He was dressed and ready to hit the ice.

I responded with a grunt, not lifting my eyes from my task. Continuing to focus on strapping on my pads, I tightened them with deliberate force.

My disinterest failed to deter Quinn. He leaned closer to me, and his elbow brushed mine. The touch sent a thousand tiny jolts of energy into me. It broke my concentration, and anger flared. I turned and grunted at him.

"Sorry, man. Didn't mean to upset. Just excited here." His tone remained warm and peaceful. He laughed off my scowl and scanned the rest of the locker room.

I grunted again and then turned my back on him. I was at the arena to play hockey, not engage in Quinn's world of unbridled cheer.

While lacing my skates, I realized he hadn't moved. He hummed a tune under his breath while shifting his weight back and forth.

"So, big plans for after we win the game?"

I answered with short, clipped words. "No plans. Just the game."

"Right, the game. Hey, I meant to ask—you got any tips for handling pregame jitters? You're always so…focused."

It was a reasonable question, and Quinn sounded authentic in seeking my guidance. I looked up at him. "Just relax and pretend it's another practice scrimmage. Don't overthink it."

"Got it. Thanks, Axel."

***

That evening, as we lined up to take the ice for warmups, I heard the rustle of Quinn's pads as he restlessly shuffled around behind me. I wanted to tell him to settle down and enjoy the moment, but he needed to find his own way.

When we glided out across the rink, a sold-out crowd roared. As I glanced at Quinn, I saw a look of awe. He turned in a complete circle to absorb the experience.

I remembered my rookie year and how seeing such a crowd of people watching me twisted my stomach into knots. I could have offered Quinn a few gentle suggestions, but he needed to figure out how to handle pressure independently as I did. His ingrained optimism was a good start.

After we all retreated to the bench, the crowd's cheers reached a peak during the introduction of the starting lineup. The lights dimmed and cast dramatic shadows over the ice. Spotlights danced around the arena in multiple colors.

"Good evening, fans of all ages, and welcome to an icy battle in the heart of Portland!" The announcer's voice boomed out of speakers and quieted the last of the noisy fans. "It's a night of high stakes and sticks as your Portland Lumberjacks take on the Detroit Redwings. And now, let's meet your starting lineup."

As the announcer continued, the crowd's roars rose and fell like waves on a stormy sea. I tuned most of it out, focusing on the ice beneath my skates and the stick in my hands.

I looked up when Quinn's name rang out and glanced his way. He soaked in the adulation, grinning and waving to the fans like a man born in the spotlight. Something pricked at me—envy or perhaps grudging admiration.

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