Fowl Play (Fangs on Ice #1)

Chapter One

Nate

Nothing gave me life like a morning skate. To this day, my mum still couldn’t understand why the smell of a locker room full of well-worn gear and sweaty guys was one of the best things I’d ever smelled in my life, but it was straight up comfort.

This is home.

“Morning, Decks,” my Swedish team mate, Bo, called as soon as he stepped over the threshold.

He sauntered across the room, and dropped his gear bag next to me on the bench.

Bo was like a brother to me—a green-skinned, seven-foot brother.

I grinned in the mirror inside my locker and bent to find my tape in the jumble of things covering the bottom.

“Fuck, where’s that damn tape!? I had it somewhere here,” I muttered as I shoved my first pair of gloves aside. I’d kept these in my locker for as long as I remembered, and gave them a little kiss before each game. I swore they were single-handedly responsible for any time I scored a goal.

Bo snorted.

“Here.” He grabbed a fresh roll from the neat stash he kept on the top shelf of his own locker and held it out to me. “You should clean this up before the Viking sees.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” Our captain was a saint, but he wouldn’t hesitate to make me skate extra laps if he saw that I’d relapsed into locker chaos again. I had no idea why, but no matter how much I vowed to keep my locker in order, it always ended up a mess.

God, the state of my childhood bedroom had driven my mom mad.

Old habits die hard.

“Is everything okay?” Bo’s deep voice cut into my thoughts.

“What? Yeah, I was just somewhere else.” I took the tape from him and focused on prepping my stick. The only time I was able to focus was when I had laced up and ice was under my blades. That was when my brain finally shut up and I was one hundred percent there.

“What a surprise,” he deadpanned as he stripped comfortably to put on his gear.

Judging by the way our Danish captain Arne handled nudity, Bo getting naked as if it was the most normal thing in the world was a Scandinavian thing.

I mean, you eventually got over any lingering prudishness when team mates casually stripping and communal showers were a regular part of your day job.

“Fuck off,” I huffed as I finished taping my stick. “What about you? You okay?”

“Oh yes, the usual.” Bo pulled his tight compression shirt over his head and gazed down at me. I wasn’t tiny by human standards but next to a Forest Troll even Nik, the tallest human on our team, looked a bit like a twink.

The “twink” had just entered the locker room, a takeaway cup in his hand, and scowled as if someone had done him a personal wrong before his first sip of coffee.

“Morning, Nik,” I trilled because I knew it riled him up when someone dared to be in a good mood this early in the morning.

He just grunted and did his breathing exercise. In, three, four, out, five, six. It was hilarious to watch.

“Who shat on your parade, Thor?” Bo asked with the innocence of a non-native speaker who kept messing up idioms.

Even Guns, our goalie, chuckled. He was half dressed; his bare chest exposed thick muscles with expertly done tattoos and his lucky charm, a key on a silver chain nobody ever dared to enquire about.

“It’s ‘rained,’ Bo,” I informed my friend.

“Well, I’m just saying.” He waved a broad green hand at our German team mate. “Thor doesn’t look like it only rained.”

Guns finished dressing and left, shaking his head about Bo and Nik as he walked past on his skates.

They bickered while I laced up and finished putting on my gear and training jersey and were still going as the three of us hit the ice.

Arne and a couple of others were already warming up.

I took off up the rink to get away from the two dumbasses who were almost brawling.

“Everyone shut up for ten seconds so I can think,” Arne finally shut them down with a pointed look.

They loved each other, really, but Bo just had way too much fun getting under Nik’s skin.

“Nate, take the inside lane,” our captain called out, and Leo and I rotated.

I was faced with a green mountain of a D-man who gave me a wide grin as he blocked my path.

“Bo, don’t crush him. Just give him some pressure.

” I passed back to Leo. “Bo, gentle pressure—not homicide,” Arne called in an exasperated voice, and Bo backed off me, well, a bit, at least.

Leo’s shot was off again. It wasn’t his fault—he’d injured his shoulder and it still wasn’t right—but every miss was getting harder to watch. We needed him back, and he just wasn’t.

“That shot was embarrassing,” Nik grunted. “My grandmother could stop that.”

“Nik, that’s enough,” the Viking snapped. “No need to add commentary.” Arne was right, it didn’t help, but Nik had a point. Jerke needed to pull Leo off the line before he injured something worse, and I needed a winger I could work with even though it made me feel like shit to admit it.

I ate my words when Nik stonewalled my next shot. They didn’t call him Frozen Fortress for nothing. He smiled at me. “Try again, rookie.”

“Fuck off.” I bumped my shoulder against his arm with a huff. I might be in my first season for the Pumas but my rookie years were long gone.

The way the ice time burned in my muscles did make me feel a bit like a rookie by the time I came out of the shower. Bo played Scandinavian pop on his phone and was still comfortably naked and chatting to Arne.

We shuffled into the arena cafeteria twenty minutes later. A shared and protein-loaded late breakfast was one of the first things S?ren, our new Danish physical therapist, had suggested. Coach Jerke had eaten up the idea and made it compulsory on Tuesdays.

Much like the rest of our rink, the cafeteria was past its prime.

Not long until we’d move into the fancy new rink on the edge of the city.

We’d seen the plans, and I didn’t know if we were more excited for our fancy new locker or Coach Jerke, who’d finally get a real office.

I couldn’t wait, but I guess I would also miss this place.

My eyes travelled around the bleak room with the fogged-up windows, terrible fluorescent lighting that hurt my eyes, mismatched chairs, and the faint perpetual smell of fries.

Or maybe not.

Finn already waited for us, his phone in hand and ready to snap pictures of us for the Pumas’ social media accounts. I almost spit out a mouthful of my protein shake at Guns’ grimace when Finn pointed his phone at him.

Guns did have his own social media account that he ran with the clumsy sincerity of a pro athlete.

But he wasn’t like Bo, who plastered his image everywhere and loved the suggestive comments he got.

Guns mainly posted pictures of healthy food he’d cooked himself using the hashtag #chefguns, snippet videos from his workouts or good saves, and ads for his endorsement deals.

“Well… I suppose it is what it is,” the hyena hybrid muttered when he checked the picture he’d snapped.

“Nate, can you turn that bottle around so the TalonPeak logo shows on the picture? I need some content for our sponsors.”

He directed us for a few minutes before we shuffled over to the counter and grabbed our mountains of scrambled eggs and bacon.

Bo reached into his bag, and I immediately smelled that pickled brine smell with undertones of forest and vinegar. “Oh God, Bo, not again,” I groaned, but my friend had already produced his jar like a magician pulling a coin out of your ear.

“Mushrooms?” he offered with a wide smile.

Leo groaned and slid his chair back as if distance might protect him. We all knew that it wouldn’t. “Last time you opened that thing, the air smelled haunted.” He shuddered, then winced when he moved his injured shoulder.

“They are traditional,” Bo insisted. “My uncle foraged them on Midsommar. It’s Troll culture,” he said firmly, as if it settled the matter.

Nik set down his coffee cup with a clack.“They’re fucking illegal,” he muttered.

Bo waved a large green hand. “Only in certain countries.” His lips curled back into a wolfish grin and exposed his fangs.

“Germany being one of them,” Nik said.

“Should…you be eating those?” I asked him in a careful voice.

Bo looked offended.“They are part of Troll culture, and I’ve heard they make you humans very horny, too.”

Too? Do I even want to know?

Guns sighed with the air of an exasperated father, and rested a tattooed hand on Bo’s enormous bicep.

“Bo. Buddy. We talked about this. Not here.”

“You are such en gl?djedodare, a killjoy,” he added in English.

Arne wandered over and clapped Bo on the shoulder. “Save them for Friday. Someone always needs a conversation starter at the barn party. And maybe it will get all of us out of there early,” he added in a stage-whisper.

The Viking always showed up for charity events or whichever official function we had to attend, but he wasn’t a fan of parties.

“Barn party?” I asked, perking up. It had been ages since I’d been at a good party. But then again, there were people at parties, strangers who might expect small talk. Maybe I didn’t want to go, after all.

Guns set down his cutlery and gave the group his quiet, steady, nothing-gets-past-me goalie stare.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I meant to tell you.”He pointed at me. “You’re coming.”

“Of course I am.” I sighed. “But I’m not eating any of the mushrooms.”

Bo looked personally wounded.

Before we left, Guns called over.

“Nate! Don’t wear your good shoes. It’s a barn.”

“Why would I have good shoes? Do I look German?”

Everybody laughed as we filed out, and I followed Bo into the cold autumn air, already overthinking the barn of people I’d have to meet in two days.

It’s fine. I’m fine.

My teammates had meant well when they’d invited me to the birthday party of one of Guns’ friends.

The birthday boy, whose name I forgot two minutes after Guns introduced us, had turned twenty-nine. The barn was already packed with party guests, and there were about a hundred beer crates stacked in a corner.