Author's Note: Everything in this story is as accurate as my research and imagination could make it. To avoid plot spoilers, I'll save a more detailed account of fact and fiction for the author's note in the last chapter, but if readers have any questions on the veracity of anything in this fanfic, they can shoot me a review or a PM, and I'll get back to them with a response as quickly as my crazy schedule permits.

The quotes from hockey players and coaches are all chosen because they transcend time period in capturing a locker room and team culture although some of the quotations used in this fic were not uttered until after this story is set. On that final note, sit back and enjoy the story…

In Each Stick

"I only have one goal in each stick."—Petr Klima explaining his custom of breaking his sticks after scoring

It was a few minutes before morning practice in Helsinki, Finland, was scheduled to start, which meant it had to be nighttime back home in St. Claire Shores, Michigan. What time precisely Mark Wells wasn't going to calculate, since that would only make him feel further dislocated from everyone—except Ken Morrow—who believed in him as a person and a hockey player.

All over the ice, his teammates performed whatever various tasks prepared them most effectively for the impending practice. Dotting the faceoff circles, knots of players stretched and speculated on the drills Herb was likely to subject them to that morning. Along the boards, a line of boys inspected the tape on their sticks, fiddled with the eternally chafing straps snapped beneath their chins, and adjusted their gloves. At the far end of the ice from where Mark stood, a stream of players cycled around the goalposts, passing pucks to one another or firing them into the mesh of the net.

Shaking his head, Mark observed inwardly how weird it was for him to be lonely in a rink that reverberated with teasing and laughter. As he often did when he felt vulnerable, he decided to get his blood pumping and his adrenaline spiking with a competition. Once he voluntarily pitted himself against the rest of the world, it didn't sting like vinegar applied to a gaping wound to be rejected by everybody.

"Let's have a goal celebration contest," he announced, nudging Ken, who was skating alongside him, in the ribs. "We take turns putting the puck in the net, and every time it goes in, whoever shot it has to break into the disco or some crazy crap like that. Whoever has the more insane celebration wins. You go first now."

"All right." Ken yanked his stick back to wind up for one of his comically slow but remarkably accurate slapshots.

"Shit, Kenny." Mark chortled as he monitored the puck's glacial progression into the empty net. "Grandmothers who are too senile to remember where the grocery store is buy milk faster than that."

"Don't spoil my moment with your jealousy." Ken watched as the puck finally found its destination, and then he sped around the net, knelt, and pretended to launch an invisible arrow from an equally immaterial bow toward the rafters. "The goal light is flashing for me!"

"Pathetic performance. You must have had cold feet in those skates." Rolling his eyes as Ken ceased his antics, Mark fired a considerably faster wrist shot that steamed in the net. Holding his stick like a gun directed at the vacant bleachers, he took a victory lap around the goalposts, calling, "I'm the champion!"

"Not so fast. I can easily one-up that." Ken wound up for another ridiculously slow slapshot that reached its target at a pace of which a snail would be ashamed. Then, wearing an exaggeratedly smug expression as if he had just potted the most gorgeous goal in all of hockey history, he mounted his stick and charged toward center ice with his stick jammed between his legs like a witch's broom. As he skated back toward Mark with the stick removed from between his thighs, Ken asked, "Wasn't that some amazing witchcraft?"

"The only witchcraft is in my shooting skills," answered Mark in his most dismissive tone, launching a backhanded shot that sailed into the net. Deciding to take advantage of the opportunity to go completely wild in every way before the regimented drills of practice began, he whirled and glided back to the blueline. There he flopped dramatically onto the ice and allowed his momentum to carry him skidding across neutral ice, chirping, "Help me! I've fallen and I can't get up."

"On your feet, Wells," barked a harsh voice Mark had no trouble recognizing, but he reflexively craned his neck to look at Herb as he stepped onto the rink anyway. "We don't have time to waste with you messing around like the idiot you are during practice. If you aren't going to work, you can get your ass back into the locker room and pack for your trip home. I'm serious even if you aren't. Get that through the concrete block you're using as a heck this instant."

Biting his tongue with enough force to draw blood over a scathing retort about what orifice from which Herb should consider removing his own head, Mark pushed himself to his feet, feeling suddenly clumsy and confused where a minute ago he had felt agile and smooth in every sense of the word. Not that such a transformation should have come as a shock to him, of course, because it was one that the mere presence of Herb and his icy glower routinely provoked.

His cheeks burning like embers from an unbanked fire with embarrassment, Mark joined his teammates in a semicircle along the boards, listening to drill Herb outlined with accompanying flicks of his marker on the glass.

The strategy that Herb mapped out could probably have been explained in Mandarin and Mark would have comprehended it as well, but he didn't want to bring further condemnation crashing down on his eardrums, so he did not raise a hand when Herb concluded his lecture with the following sharp question: "Are we clear about what we'll be doing?"

"Clear as mud in a fucking swamp," muttered Mark to Ken, whose mouth quirked into a sickle smile, satisfying his need to be snarky in the face of bafflement.

Ten minutes later, though, as he battled with Neal Broten along the boards for the puck in an internal tangle of bemusement about what he was supposed to next and if he was even doing the right thing during the present nonetheless in the uncertain future, he wished that he had sacrificed his pride by asking Herb what in the name of all the fickle hockey gods they were intended to do in this latest of Herb's bewildering training techniques.

He was so frustrated and flustered that he somehow lost control of his stick. Eyes wide as coins, he heard the stick—acting of its own accord—smashing into Neal's jaw. The resultant crack turned Mark into a numb statue as a howling Neal attempted rather ineffectually to cradle a bruising jaw and wipe the blood from a split lip with a glove simultaneously. He wanted to apologize or offer to fetch Neal a towel from the bench, but he couldn't remember the words necessary to express even these basic notions, and his mouth, dry as sawdust, wouldn't have permitted him to choke out these phrases anyhow.

"Are you okay, buddy?" asked Eric Strobel, skating over to cup Neal's chin as delicately as he could with gloves on.

"Yeah, you bet." Neal gave a grin that appeared more like a grimace. "I never really cared for my lips, you know. I was hoping to be able to get another set one of these days."

"Oh, well done, Wells," put in Rob McClanahan, who had arrived at the scene less than a second behind Eric and was now studying Mark as if he were some hideous bug under a microscope awaiting classification—horriblus insectus, male. Although they had only been acquainted for only a handful of weeks, Mark already realized that Rob was a fumer who would never tell you explicitly that he was mad. You just had to guess by the tautness of his cheekbones, the steely slits of his eyes, and the enunciated sighs that could be as belittling as his contemptuous commentary. Rob seemed to be in that angry mode right now, which was guaranteed to make what was already shaping into a terrible day even more nightmarish. "You've proven that you can be a tough guy so long as you're whaling into those younger than you. You must be so proud. Would you like a shiny trophy so you can boast to all your neighbors about how brave you are, beating up on those littler than you, huh?"

Gritting his teeth, Mark thought that at the best of times, Rob had more than his fair share of upper-crust hauteur, which Mark was learning was something that couldn't be bought but was instead taught from a childhood spent in a gated community, exclusive country clubs, fancy restaurants, and posh resorts, and this was most definitely closer to the worst of times than the best.

"Stuff a sock in it, McClanahan," snarled Mark, his hands clenching into fists as he imagined punching out a row of Rob's teeth. "It was a fucking accident, you jackass, as you would see I you removed that stick you have shoved up your butt."

"You're supposed to maintain control of your stick at all times unless it's a wind-up or follow-through from a shot on goal, which your hit on Neal wasn't, for the record." Rob's disdainful glare made it plain that, as little as he had ever anticipated from Mark, he had at least expected more than this, but that shouldn't have been a surprise. Rob was so conscientious about hockey—and indeed everything else in the universe-that he probably never did anything unintentional with his stick and couldn't fathom anyone else having such a lapse. That's why Mark's private nickname for him was He-Who-Could-Achieve-Anything-by-Sheer-Force-of-Will. That's why his most frequent and considerably less annoying linemate was Mark Johnson, also known as He-Who-Could-Do-No-Wrong. "Since you drew blood with that rowdy stick of yours, it would be a four minute penalty, which you wouldn't be the one to have kill, so I guess that's why this whole affair is not sweat off your brow."

Skating over from the bench with a cloth, Bill Baker chimed in, "All this arguing isn't doing anyone any good."

Before Mark or Rob could respond, Bill thrust the towel into Neal's grasp, ordering, "Hold this to your lips and put gentle pressure on it, Neal. That'll staunch the bleeding in a couple of minutes at most."

"How unhygienic." Mouth thinning, Rob jerked his chin at the cloth Neal was pressing against his bloody lips. "That's one of the towels we use to wipe sweat off our foreheads. Do you even understand what germs are, Dr. Baker?"

"It hasn't been used yet today." Bill shrugged. "Chill out before you give yourself a coronary."

"That doesn't mean anything." All stubbornness, Rob shook his head. "That towel probably hasn't been washed since it was first manufactured in about the sixteenth century."

"Don't indulge in hyperbole," countered Bill. "Be reasonable, Robbie. The first textile mills weren't even created until the Industrial Revolution began in the later part of the eighteenth century."

Rob opened his mouth to snap back, but was cut off before he could start to speak by the arrival of Coach Patrick, who asked, "What's going on here, boys?"

"Wells high-sticked Neal right in the jaw." Rob snatched the cloth from Neal's hand and waved it in Coach Patrick's face. "Look at all that blood, Coach."

"It was an accident," ground out Mark, shooting Rob a withering glare that he hoped stated more eloquently than words that evisceration was too pleasant a fate for a liar and a snitch.

"If it was an accident, then I'm very much mistaken." Rob's frigid manner provided an implicit declaration that he perceived himself as seldom being wrong and immensely doubted that this was one of those few occasions.

"That's extremely likely to be the case because you weren't here to see what actually happened before passing judgment," Mark volleyed back, thinking that two could engage in this verbal sparring match.

"Neal." Seemingly ignoring the war of wits between Mark and Rob, Coach Patrick riveted his gaze on the truly injured party. "That jaw appears as if it could swell. Do you want to go into the locker room and get an ice pack from Doc?"

"Nah, Coach. I've heard that the ladies find a tough guy simply irresistible." Neal's playful spirit glimmered through his eyes. "I'm going to rock the ruggedly handsome look for their benefit for a week or two."

"Fine. Don't hesitate to get an ice pack if you change your mind, though." Coach Patrick shifted his focus to first Mark and then Rob. "Now, if Mark claims that his stick hitting Neal was unintentional, we have to believe him in the absence of any incredibly convincing evidence on the contrary. I trust that verdict will be satisfactory to everyone."

"After such a thorough investigation into the suspicious circumstances surrounding Neal's injury, I don't see how anybody could be less than satisfied." The sardonic twist to Rob's expression made it obvious that he thought that it was more likely that Mark had gotten away with an awful, blatant cheapshot than that he was as much a hapless victim of his stick as Neal was.

Mark was well aware that this was a boil that Rob would need to lance after practice or else it would fester, so he was not astonished when during the bus ride to Helsinki station to catch a train that would transport them north to Oulu, Rob slipped into the aisle seat next to him that had just been vacated by Ken rising to visit the bathroom.

On a whole, Mark didn't anticipate anything remotely amicable emerging from this encounter. After all, he was by now firmly convinced that Minnesota Nice was just another term for passive-aggressive and that all Minnesota natives were more wary of than friendly to outsiders. Of the Minnesotan xenophobes clotting the Olympic team, Rob, probably nervous that anyone outside his sheltered neighborhood was a closet serial killer, was the most egregious offender, as far as Mark was concerned. On this particular occasion, Rob didn't fail to live up to form.

Without preamble, because he wasn't the type to waste a second on small talk when he had an important point to make, Rob remarked tersely, "You made a mistake bigger than the Grand Canyon at practice today, you know."

"Really?" Mark arched a coldly inquisitive eyebrow, determined to prove how utterly unfazed he was by any potential criticism Rob McClanahan's piquant tongue could provide free of charge.

"Yep." Hard eyes locked on Mark's, Rob offered a brief nod. "Listen, wanting to show that you're a tough guy is all fair and square, since we're all doing whatever the hell we have to do to make this team, but targeting Neal Broten for your cheapshot was about as brilliant an idea as going skydiving without a parachute. In case it's slipped your notice as so many things have, Neal's a pet of Herb's. If he catches you trying to make mincemeat of Neal, he'll torture you so much that you'll be begging on your knees to be boiled alive and devoured by cannibals."

"You've rode the Tilt-a-Whirl too long if this is the sort of vomit you're spewing," hissed Mark, spine stiffening and body temperature rocketing from arctic enough to freeze the blood coursing through his veins to hot enough to cook an egg just like the sidewalls during the dog days of August when it was ninety-two degrees in the shade. Sweat pooled on his forehead and ran in rivulets down his cheeks. As he swiped the salty secretions away with the cuff of his shirt, he blamed the moisture coating his face on the dubiously reliable climate control system in the bus. "I already explained that the high-stick on Neal was an accident. If Neal has no trouble believing that, I don't see why you're having such a difficult time accepting that truth, unless the rumors about your peanut-sized brain are grounded in reality."

"Neal is far too innocent to contemplate nonetheless comprehend deliberate malice." Rob's clenching jaw made every syllable strident. "Not all of his friends—and he's got way more of them than just Herb, so you're aware-are that naïve. Keep control of your stick around him, or else you might discover that you're the tragic victim of some unfortunate and totally not suspicious accident befalling you at practice."

"Are you threatening me?" growled Mark, already envisioning the damage that his stick could inflict on Rob if the other forward dared to assault him on ice. It would be good to hit someone who deserved it and whom he wanted to hurt.

"On the contrary, I'm just giving you some friendly advice, since I'm sure we're all friends here now." Flashing a smile that didn't even approach his eyes and was chillingly devoid of any genuine warmth, Rob rose as Ken exited the bathroom at the rear of the bus. "Ah, Kenny materializes. I'll leave you to the auspices of his charming company and hope that your life won't be a desert drear without the oasis of my scintillating conversation. Au revoir."

"What a shitty asshole," Mark grunted to Ken as his friend settled next to him, glowering at Rob's back as he returned to the seat beside Steve Christoff and took out Wuthering Heights.

"Clearly, I'm missing a page with a crucial plot point in this conflict." Ken's gaze flickered to rest on Rob and then fixed on Mark once again. "What happened, or is it too nosy of me to ask?"

"Between friends, there's no such thing as too nosy." Desperate to escape the heat thickening the air in the bus, Mark rested his clammy forehead against the cool glass of his window. "Anyway, McClanahan was just proving that if he were half as smart as he thinks he is, he'd be twice as clever as he really is. Seriously, he's dimmer than a burned out lightbulb. That's why he's convinced that my unintentional high-stick on Neal was a cheapshot and worth threatening me with suspicious accidents of my own if any more mistakes happen."

"Don't worry." Ken clapped Mark's shoulder. "If he tries to beat up on you, I'll stand up for you, and I'm much bigger than he is."

"McClanahan is the least person on Earth I'm afraid of," scoffed Mark, rolling his eyes. "He's so weak that he probably can't even whip cream."

"In our dealings with him, I guess we've both got to keep in mind as much as possible that from his perspective he's just protecting his teammate," Ken commented already attempting to minimize potential confrontations before they could crop up by striving to view events from their opponent's position. No matter how horrifyingly rude Rob acted, Ken would behave as the best of Good Samaritans, because he expected himself to always be civil regardless of circumstances. "I'm sure once you've been his teammate for longer and earned his loyalty, you'll appreciate his defensiveness a ton more."

"Whatever you say." Mark scraped at his cuticles. "Of course, it remains to be seen how much longer I'm teammate, anyhow, before I'm crossed off the roster."

"Before he's crossed off the roster, you mean," corrected Ken, elbowing Mark in the stomach. "Don't go all defeatist on me now, okay? That's never been your style, and it doesn't suit you."

"I'm a realist, not a defeatist." Shaking his head, Mark thought he was astute enough to know which way the wind was blowing when a monsoon was raging around him. "I'm used to having to prove myself to coaches since I'm so small because I've been doing that ever since I laced up skates all the way through college. I truly believe that I could be as dynamic a center as Pavelich, Broten, and maybe even Johnsn if Herb gave me a shot. I'm just not crazy enough to think that herb's going to give me that chance at the rate things are progressing. That's life, or death, really, given the context of my fate on this team."

"You have plenty of time to show Herb that you're worth your weight in gold." Ken ruffled Mark's sweaty hair. "Cheer up. I mean, McClanahan probably hasn't impressed Herb enough to be guaranteed a spot on the roster either by now. Everything is still in flux."

"Wake the fuck up, Kenny. The alarm is blaring, and the coffee is brewing." Vexed by his friend's obtuseness, Mark clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "McClanahan is about as much a lock for the team as anyone can be. I hate his guts, but there's no denying he's a clever and quick player, and if there's two things in the world Herb doesn't despise, they're swift and smart. Besides, McClanahan's already building an on ice chemistry nobody else has with Johnson, so, even if he were the jackpot combination of stupid and slow, he'd have decent odds of making the roster as the useless appendage of a winger that in one of the greater unresolved mysteries of the universe jells better than anyone else with the indispensable star center."

"Well, then you'd better learn how to get along with him," insisted Ken, earnest as a terrier, "because apparently you're both going to be teammates in Lake Placid."

"I'd rather be teammates with the maggots on a decomposing corpse." Mark's lips curved into a sneer.

"Why can't you just be nice?" Ken sighed, and, though Mark snorted, a message sank in with him all the same: that being nice was the ideal, the one place where people didn't get so loud or so quiet they could scar you for life. If you could just be nice, then you wouldn't have to worry about injuries, arguments, or suspicions at all, but being nice, at least for Mark, wasn't as easy as it sounded, especially when the rest of the planet was determined to be so callous and cruel.