Prologue
VIGGO
Puck Dreams
Seventeen years earlier
Nyköping, Sweden
Adrenaline pumped through Viggo Sandström’s veins as he skated toward the goal, carrying the puck into enemy territory. The cold air was sharp in his lungs, and he could feel the electricity in the arena as the seconds ticked off the clock. He had two opponents on his back and a goalie waiting to crush his dreams.
But nothing was going to stop him from scoring.
Using his speed, he raced past a defenseman to get in front of the net. When the goalie shifted one way, Viggo lifted his stick and blasted the puck into the back of the net.
Goal!
He pumped his fist in the air as the crowd roared and started chanting his name. His teammates surrounded him, cheering and yelling, “You did it! We won!”
He beamed excitedly and hugged them back. He could see his parents and siblings celebrating in the stands. Their proud smiles made him feel twenty feet—
Suddenly the loud cry of a hawk tore through the air, yanking him out of his daydream.
He blinked up at the gray winter sky and then slowly looked around. He was standing alone on a frozen lake at his grandparents’ farm. There was no cheering crowd. No celebrating teammates. It was just him out there. Him and his hockey stick and an open net.
A slow grin spread across his face as he lined up the next row of pucks on the ice. He was supposed to be doing chores that morning, not shooting pucks. But he couldn’t help himself. He loved practicing and playing hockey. He was happiest when he had a stick in his hand and skates on his feet.
He wished he was wearing skates right now, but he didn’t plan to stay on the ice very long. He had to get back to his chores before his grandfather woke up from his nap. He loved visiting his grandparents’ farm every summer and winter. He just wished there wasn’t always so much work to do.
As he got into position to slap the first puck into the net, his stick was suddenly wrenched out of his hands.
“Nej!”
Viggo whirled around to stare up at his scowling grandfather.
Olof Sandström was a mountain of a man, tall and barrel-chested with the longest legs and biggest feet Viggo had ever seen. His eyes were battleship gray and he still had all his hair, but the blond strands had mostly lightened to silver.
He liked to tell stories about their Viking ancestor, a fearless warrior who’d raided and traded his way up the Baltic coast and deep into Russia. His tales were almost too incredible to be believed.
But standing there in the shadow of his towering grandfather, Viggo knew the stories had to be true. There was no way Olof Sandström could have descended from anyone but a Viking. But he was a legend in his own right, considered one of Sweden’s greatest hockey players. And that impressed Viggo even more than having the blood of a Viking warrior running through his veins.
Farfar grabbed him by the collar of his coat and dragged him off the frozen lake and back toward the farmhouse.
“Farfar—”
The old man released him so abruptly that he slipped and almost fell on the snowy ground. His grandfather turned and leaned over him, peering into his face. His steel-gray eyes pierced Viggo like bullets.
“Who told you to take a break from your chores?” he scolded in Swedish. “Did I give you permission?”
Viggo gulped hard. “No, Far—”
“Swedish!” his grandfather barked, jabbing a finger into his chest. “We are Swedish, not English! Prata svenska!”
Viggo gulped again and lowered his eyes to the ground. He knew his grandfather was old-fashioned, but he couldn’t understand why he had such a problem with them speaking English when so many other Swedes did it. But Farfar didn’t approve of that. He grumbled about it every chance he got. Which was pretty often.
The old man clapped a large hand on Viggo’s shoulder. He felt the weight of it like a boulder.
“Look at me, boy,” he commanded.
Viggo lifted his eyes to his grandfather’s stern face.
“If you are going to cheat on doing your chores, you might as well make good use of your time.” Farfar held up the hockey stick in one hand. “You think playing hockey is only about scoring goals and making the crowd cheer. But how will you score any goals if you are too tired from skating up and down the ice? How will you stop your opponents from scoring if you don’t have the energy to keep up with them?” He gripped Viggo’s shoulder. “You skate very fast, boy, but you need to be more than just fast. To be a good hockey player, you must have good endurance. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Viggo mumbled in Swedish. “I understand.”
“Good.” Farfar nodded. “It’s time you receive some speed endurance training.”
Viggo squinted up at the old man. “Speed endurance training?”
“To build your stamina.” Farfar looked off into the distance. “To get started, I want you to run all the way to the barn and back as fast as you can.”
Viggo followed his grandfather’s gaze across the snowy field to the small red barn. It suddenly looked far away.
Skit, he thought before adding rebelliously in English, Holy shit.
His grandfather was watching him, one eyebrow lifted. “Do you have a problem?”
“No,” Viggo said quickly.
Farfar drew a line in the snow with the blade of the hockey stick. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an old stopwatch. “I will time you.”
Viggo nodded and hastily peeled off his bulky winter coat, then moved into position behind the starting line. He trained his sights on the red barn, eyes narrowed, hands flexing at his sides.
“Viggo.”
He looked back at his grandfather.
There was a twinkling gleam in the old man’s eyes. Viggo thought it was just a trick of the sunlight.
But then Farfar said gruffly, “One day when you are a famous hockey player, you will thank me for being so tough on you.”
Viggo started to smile.
The smile was cut short when Farfar clicked the stopwatch and shouted, “GO!”
Viggo took off running across the field. He ran for all he was worth, his arms and legs pumping, his boots crunching in the snow, the cold wind whipping his face and stinging his eyes. Jaw clenched with fierce determination, he raced toward that little red barn like it was on fire and he needed to rescue the animals inside.
“Faster!” Farfar yelled behind him. “Run faster, boy!”
Viggo pushed himself harder, streaking past snow-covered trees as the steady whoosh of the wind grew to a roar in his ears.
Farfar was right, he told himself. He was going to be famous someday. He knew it in his heart, felt it deep in his young bones. He was destined to become a great hockey player, maybe even greater than his grandfather.
And he would do it on hockey’s biggest stage, he fervently vowed.
Someday he would be famous in the NHL.