Page 1 of Gamechanger

Chapter one

Moose

The squeaky wheel on my cart announced my arrival in the Portland Lumberjacks' locker room, its high-pitched whine echoing off the walls. It was impossible to ignore the combined scents of sweat and disinfectant, a pungent nasal cocktail. Was that the smell of victory on the way?

I harbored apprehension about my quest to win the hockey players over to an eco-friendly sports snacking, but I was ready to give it a go. My heart thundered in my chest as I glanced around, spotting at least one friendly face in the crowd: my best bud, Quinn.

"Gentlemen!" I boomed, my voice echoing off the walls. "Prepare your taste buds for a grand journey into bold flavor and earth-saving sustainability!"

About twenty pairs of eyes suddenly looked in my direction. I saw curiosity in one pair and wary questions in another. A few even registered as hostile. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the distant hum of the air conditioning. I did my best to flash the million-dollar grin that got me out of trouble in college and into trouble at bars.

Whipping aside the cloth covering the cart, I revealed stacks of colorful square packages. "Behold! I bring you seaweed snacks! This is your new secret weapon, usable both for stolen victories on the ice and securing a greener planet."

Axel Karlsson, Quinn's grizzled old bear of a partner, squinted at me and tilted his head to the right. He had a craggy profile that appeared carved from granite, perhaps by a sculptor with a shaky hand. "Moretti," he growled in a rough, sandpapery voice, "have you finally taken leave of your senses? Who asked for this?"

I tossed him a snack package, and he caught it reflexively. "Try it, stud. Maybe it can put some new spring in those creaky old joints."

After I flung more than a dozen additional packages around the locker room, I heard the crinkling sounds of the players dispensing with the wrappers. Holding my breath, I watched their faces for indications of reactions to my brave experiment.

Blaise, a cocky rookie, was the first to respond, and I suddenly wished he hadn't. "Sweet mother of—" he looked like he'd sucked on a lemon or two or three. "I think it's like kissing a mermaid after she's been eating… I don't want to think about what's been in her mouth."

My enthusiasm for my project started to wither like a weed hit by herbicide. "Come on, guys. Give it a chance. Sure, it's anacquired taste—like fine wine or coffee. Did you like those the first time around?

Sergei Volkov, our often stoic Russian defenseman, munched and swallowed the whole package. He reached for a second. "It's not bad," he shrugged. "It reminds me of childhood in Vladivostok."

Just as I started to latch onto Sergei's praise and offer him a high-five, Axel rendered his verdict, and he wasn't kind. "Moretti, what the fuck? Tastes like licking the bottom of a used aquarium, and I'm not going to tell you how I know. Just get these away from me."

Laughter erupted around the locker room, followed by a wave of deep red blushing swallowing my cheeks. Still, I didn't want them to see me sweat, so I forced a grin even wider than before. "That's quite a descriptive response, but think of the benefits here—omega-3s and minerals. The—"

Coach Fraser's whistle sent a shrill sound wave around the room. It saved me from trying to deliver a speech destined for failure. "Okay, men. It's time for less snacking and more skating. I want to see you on the ice—now. Game time in 30."

While the team filed out, skates clacking as they chattered and jostled each other, I sat on one of the now-empty benches. My eco-friendly effort was a failure. Fortunately, several more initiatives by my organization worked. They included plant-based brownies, biodegradable cups and straws, and new bright, bold signage to boost recycling.

The game itself unfolded in a fast-paced, adrenaline-fueled blur. From where I sat in one of the best seats directly behind the bench, the players crisscrossed the ice in well-planned formations, constantly driving the puck back into the opponents' defensive zone.

Midway through the second period, with a tie score of 1-1, I was knocked for a loop. Finn Novak, a rookie winger and theteam's latest acquisition, tore down the ice, his helmet barely containing his wild mop of hair. He moved so fast that his skates barely seemed to connect with the ice as he dodged the opposing team's defensemen.

"Go, Finn, go!" I shouted, one of many voices encouraging the upstart rookie.

He stopped for a moment, letting the defensemen catch up, and at the moment I thought an enforcer would crush him, he surprised almost everyone in the arena. With a quick flick of his wrist, he sent the puck backward between his legs in a perfect pass to Quinn. I'd never seen anything like it.

As expected, Quinn ran with the opportunity like a man possessed. He fired a slapshot that zipped through the air, just over the top of the goalie's glove and landed in the back of the net with a satisfying clang. The goal horn blared, and the arena erupted with shouts and cheers.

On my feet, I threw both of my fists in the air. "Did you see that?" I asked of no one in particular. "Freaking amazing! How'd he do that?" I was used to Quinn's impressive plays. We'd been close friends since our first days of college, but Finn's fake was something else.

While the team celebrated by piling together on the ice, I found it nearly impossible to take my eyes off Finn. He flashed a boyish grin from ear to ear and accepted congratulatory pats on the head and fist bumps from his teammates. My heart did a little flip at the sight of that smile.What was happening to me?

Standing only 5'8", he was easily the shortest of the Lumberjacks on the ice, but if anything, his stature only made him work harder to prove his worth. Man, he proved it to his teammates and the fans. I couldn't help but admire his determination, and I loved that wicked little smile he flashed just before stealing the puck from the opponents.

The other Lumberjacks players put on an impressive show during the rest of the game, but I focused on Finn. He had a magnetic pull that was impossible to resist. He was an aggressive figure on the ice, particularly effective at charging fearlessly to deflect the puck away, disrupting the opponents' execution of their playbook.

His speed was astonishing. He'd easily defeat any of his teammates in a one-on-one race for speed. He seemed to go from standing still to full tilt in mere seconds. I held my breath every time he accelerated, marveling at the grace and power he packed into that small frame.

When he was on the bench between line changes, I did my best to observe without being caught staring. The intensity of his concentration made my heart pound. I imagined what it would be like to have that intense focus directed at me. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. I needed to say hello and find out more.

When the final buzzer sounded, the Lumberjacks were easy winners 3-1. I cheered until my voice sounded as rugged as Axel's gravelly bark. I coughed and did my best to return it to normal as I strolled toward the locker room, eager to talk to the team's latest sensation.

As I left the stands, my palms were sweaty, and I wiped them on my jeans. What would I say to Finn? "Nice game" was horribly inadequate after the master class I'd just witnessed on the ice.

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