Gamechanger (Portland Lumberjacks #2)

1. Moose

Chapter one

Moose

T he 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 an acquired 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 the team'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.

After the game, the locker room buzzed with the kind of energy only a victory could sustain. I wove through the players and journalists, congratulating those I recognized while trying to ignore the uneaten packets of seaweed snacks that lay around the room, swept into corners and under benches.

After dodging a half dozen flying towels and fist bumps that missed their mark, I spotted Finn Novak appearing a little bewildered by the attention he drew. "Looks like you're making your mark, Finn. Are you leading these upstarts to the Stanley Cup next?" asked an over-zealous journalist.

Finn took it in stride. "If that's what the stars have in mind for us, sure thing. Just doing my job. Helping put the puck in the net."

As I approached, I towered over Finn with gangly arms and an oversized frame. My self-consciousness about my height put a stopper on my usual boisterous energy, like a cap on a shaken soda bottle, barely holding in the fizz. I lowered my voice to ask a simple question: "Enjoying the taste of victory?"

"Hey, yeah. You're the guy that fed us the seaweed. It wasn't so bad. Just a bit of an acquired taste… maybe like me." He showed off a pair of dimples with a hint of a Midwestern accent.

"That would be me, and you've got an adventurous palate. Most of these guys thought I was feeding them toxic waste."

"Well, you know, growing up in Minnesota, you learn to appreciate foods that take you outside the taste of hot dish and texture of shredded cheese. This is like gourmet fancy food to my taste buds."

I clutched my chest. "A man after my heart. Yes, gourmet, indeed. Those snacks are made from the finest sustainably harvested, organic, free-range seaweed money can buy."

Finn raised an eyebrow. "Free-range seaweed? Does that mean you let it roam the ocean floor without fences?"

I nodded and spoke in a solemn, respectful tone. "Absolutely. Local mermaids lovingly tend each seaweed plant before humane scuba divers ethically harvest them."

"They'd better be gentle 'cause I think I tasted a hint of mermaid tears in my bite."

Finn wasn't only fast on the ice; he was quick with a quip, too. I did my best to engage in hockey talk. "That was some jet-fueled skating out there tonight. Where'd you learn to move like that?"

He shrugged. "Oh, I guess it started with messing around on frozen ponds back home. When you're the smallest kid on the ice, you learn how to get out of the way of the big bruisers."

"You've got that down. You made those defensemen look like they were skating through molasses."

"Thanks." Finn smiled again, and something about it tugged at me. "I figure if there's no way for me to bulldoze through guys like Sergei and Axel, I need to learn how to skate circles around them. You know, a 'catch me if you can' way of doing it."

Despite the noise around us, we carried on an easy conversation about hockey strategies and saving the environment. We both leaned in, wanting to catch every word.

Finn spotted one of the seaweed packets and pulled it over to us with his stick. "They might taste a little better if they added some maple flavor. Everything's better that way."

I pulled my head back in surprise at the creativity of the suggestion. "You might be a product development genius. Maple-flavored seaweed snacks; it's no crazier than pickle-flavored potato chips."

"If we can embrace kale chips, why not maple seaweed?" Finn laughed.

As the other players began to filter out of the locker room, Finn hoisted his gear bag over his shoulder. "Hey, Moose, thanks for the talk… and tickling my tastebuds with a new experience."

I chuckled softly and tried to hide any hint of my disappointment at the end of our conversation. "Anytime, and you know, somebody's got to carry the flag for ocean-bottom cuisine."

Finn grinned and extended his fist for a bump. As I moved to match it, he suddenly opened his hand wide and wiggled his fingers. Caught off-guard by the gesture, I fumbled around, my big paw clumsily trying to mirror his moves. It turned into a weird tangle of fingers and thumbs—one part fist bump, one part high-five, and three or more parts awkward.

We both laughed. "What was that, Mr. Novak?"

"Sorry, bud. It's something I do with my brothers. Guess I should have given you a heads up."

I shrugged. "Not so bad. Now, you've initiated me into a secret Novak family ritual. Do you dance naked around campfires, too?"

"Oh, you have no idea what we do." Finn winked. "See you around, Moose." With that, he turned for the exit.

While Finn strolled to the exit, I stared after him, the sensation of his fingertips still dancing on my hand. He'd gotten under my skin somehow, but I didn't know what it meant. All I knew was I wanted to experience more of his quick wit, enthusiasm for hockey, and charming good looks.

***

Later that night at home, as I sprawled on my couch, my knitting needles (yes, knitting!) clacked in a constant rhythm while I worked on my latest project—a Lumberjacks scarf in the team colors. The TV droned in the background, playing some documentary about northern Pacific marine life. I was a fan of nature and had a biology degree to prove it.

The cozy nature of my evening was constantly interrupted by visions of Finn's boyish grin and twinkling eyes. I wondered what he was doing to enjoy his evening. Did he give me a second thought? Or was he wrapped up in some video game or already sound asleep?

I glanced down at my project and realized I missed a stitch. "Damn!" I muttered to the world and myself as I unraveled the row. It was unusual to get distracted while working on one of my creations.

While I worked to fix the problem, I looked at the stack of eco-friendly product samples piled on my coffee table. The neon green packets of seaweed snacks were on top. Finn's suggestion of adding maple syrup came back to me.

"Maple mixed with the ocean. Was it a natural world abomination or just the thing? Was Finn onto something?"

I set my knitting aside and dove into a new task. Two hours later, it was past midnight, and my vision began to blur from so much reading my laptop screen. I'd let myself slide into a world of seaweed production methods and the ins and outs of New England Sugaring Season. Finally, I decided I'd read enough and needed to give the idea a trial run.

My joints cracked as I hauled myself up off the couch. My kitchen betrayed my bachelor lifestyle. It included high-end appliances that came with the apartment, proudly displaying gleaming stainless steel surfaces that gradually gathered a fine layer of dust due to lack of use.

I'd stuffed the freezer full of convenience foods that made up the bulk of my diet. After rummaging through the items, I pulled my head out and triumphantly held a box of frozen waffles aloft.

"That's step one—a sufficiently neutral platform."

Next, I tore open one of the bags of seaweed snacks. I laid two waffles on a large plate and carefully arranged a single layer of seaweed chips on top. The color contrast of green against gold didn't look appetizing, but flavor was the standard for my experiment. Design elements could come later.

After pulling the squeeze bottle of maple syrup from a cabinet, I paused with it in my hand. "Brilliant or disgusting beyond belief. Which is it, Moose? Only one way to find out."

I drizzled the deep brown syrup over my culinary creation, topping it off with an "F" drawn in the center. After nuking the entire creation in the microwave for a few seconds, it was ready for a test.

Heat unleashed a more intense aroma, but I couldn't say it was unpleasant. The seaweed gave the rich smell of maple a briny undertone. My nose twitched, and I pulled a fork out of a drawer. It was time to dig in.

The first bite surprised me. The waffle was crispy, and the seaweed had an oceanic crunch of its own. The syrup, a striking balance of sweet and salty, tied it all together.

"Holy shit! I think it works."

I devoured the entire plate while watching caribou migrate across Alaska and the Yukon. The taste of my creation wasn't merely acceptable. It was unique and fascinating, a flavor combination that would make jaded minds sit up and take notice.

I wanted to tell Finn all about it, but at 1:35 a.m., and without his number, I'd have to wait for another arena visit.

As I drifted to sleep that night, I dreamed about the ocean with a sweet maple syrup chaser. I sat on the end of a dock, making googly eyes at the handsome man beside me, his profile silhouetted by the setting sun. Where did he come from, and where were we going? The answers would have to wait.