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 justwasn’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 Nikhada 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 theshower. 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 Søren, 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 proteinshake at Guns’ grimace when Finn pointed his phone at him.
Gunsdidhave 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 myfriend 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 suchen glädjedödare, 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 werepeopleat parties, strangers who might expect small talk. Maybe I didn’t want to go, after all.
